I hate TV trays

When I was a kid, we ate about 75% of our meals in the car, somewhere between softball practice and home. I would guess that 24% of our meals were eaten at TV trays. The other 1% - Christmas, Thanksgiving, and Easter - were eaten at "the big table." Growing up, I never thought much about it. It's just the way it was. When you were involved in everything under the sun - from drill team to softball to band to Latin club - there wasn't much to be done about where you ate your dinner. I never thought to myself, "Man. I sure wish we ate more meals at the table."

When I met Doug, I'd heard about these legendary "Carey Family Dinner Discussions" and I was intrigued. What would we talk about? Was there an agenda? Or did you just sort of wing it? We didn't discuss much over dinner in my home. We watched Family Matters, we listened to 104KRBE, and we rushed from place to place. I'm sure we talked about the latest report card grades and wondered out loud about the Astros game on the TV, but sadly, I cannot recall one single TV tray dinner conversation we shared as a family. Shockingly (note sarcasm), I can recall, in detail, many of our dinner table conversations with the Careys. Now that "the Careys" includes my little family, I've become a dinner table Nazi.

Because we never ate dinner at the dinner table, I never understood needing to be dismissed from dinner. It baffled me that anyone would have to ask permission to take his or her plate to the sink and flop down on the couch to watch TV. Thinking back on it, that's because when I finished dinner, I pushed my TV tray around the side of my recliner and continued watching TV until the next commercial break. It was understood - commercial equals dinner's over. Now that I'm a wife and a mother, I can't even fathom allowing my child(ren) to just get up after he believes he's finished his dinner to move on to something else. The total lack of respect for not only the meal I prepared but also for our quality family time would send me through the roof.

When Doug, Daniel, and I moved in with my parents, we miraculously moved 99% of our meals from TV trays to the dinner table. It was so ingrained in my psyche after just 4 short years of being a Carey that I forced my parents to become a part of my dinner table world. I couldn't stomach the idea of spending the entire day alone with Daniel only to sit yards away from my nearest family member, half enjoying the meal I'd worked so hard to prepare and splitting my attention between family discussions and what happened to be on prime time.

In the end, I guess it's not so much that I hate TV trays. I suppose it's more that I can't stand the idea of ever going back to a world where my family is separated during one of the very rare set-aside times that you can actually spend time as a family. To me (in my old age), dinner is a time to spend together. It's a chance to talk about your day without having to worry about who's doing what or how many minutes are left on the meatloaf. It's a designated window where we can focus on each other, not on Baloo the bear or Steve Urkel. Perhaps I don't hate TV trays - I've just come to despise what they represent.

On pregnancy

When I first found out I was pregnant, I was pretty ecstatic. Let's face it - I'm still pretty ecstatic. I didn't tell too many people at first as I have known far too many people who have had trouble early on. The last thing I wanted was to have to send out a new and unimproved message stating that something horrible had happened and it was all a false alarm. For both of my pregnancies, we decided that prior to an OB visit, we would tell immediate family and best friends. No cousins, no aunts, and certainly no friends of less than a decade. It's worked wonderfully thus far.

There are a few standard questions people ask you when you tell them you're pregnant - When are you due? When did you find out? How do you feel? Do you have a feeling about the gender? The first two don't really lead to much of a discussion. The last question is just sort of a "thing" people say. That third question? That's what bugs me. I'm not sure what people want to hear, but evidently, most of them want you to be miserable. While a few of my friends have smiled gleefully and nodded enthusiastically when I say, "I feel great!" some of them have less-than-desirable reactions. That list includes (but is not limited to), "Oh you've got plenty of time to feel like crap." "Ugh. I hate pregnant women like you." "You're the pregnant girl people love to hate." "Do you think maybe you have some sort of hormonal imbalance? It's not normal to feel so good during pregnancy."

What? Really? Do people really ask you how you're feeling because they want to hear your latest I-ran-for-the-bathroom-but-didn't-make-it-in-time-and-puked-in-my-hand-at-the-bank story? Because honestly? That's horrible. I know misery loves company, but unless you're in your first trimester and you just had that experience yesterday, NEWSFLASH - You're not miserable anymore! Don't wish that upon me!

I'm not sure what I'm getting at here, but I really do wish people could just be happy for me. I wish more people just said, "That's great! It's like God made you to make babies!" So far, I believe three people have said that to me. It's wonderful that you're happy I'm making a kid and that you care about my due date and my baby's gender, but don't be so crass when I tell you I feel good. Because that's just petty.

Whew. There. I got it off my chest.

Plugged in mommies

Nearly everyone in the US has a cell phone. From what I understand, about 65% of those phones are smart phones. Most of my friends have iPhones. All of my friends use their phones responsibly (in my presence, at least). A few of them have the babycenter app. Several of them use apps I've never heard of. Almost all of them play Words With Friends (including myself, who nabs my husband's iTouch when he gets home from work to play this silly game with my friends). I've never seen one of them ignore their child (for more than three seconds) in favor of the iPhone and I haven't ever seen one of them do anything dangerous as a result of being distracted by the iPhone.

My phone does not alert me when severe weather is coming. My phone does not play a little jingle when x, y, or z stock does one thing or another. My phone does not allow me to access Facebook, Google, or any other website from the convenience of the OB's waiting room or from the front seat of my car. My phone rings when I'm called, beeps when I'm texted, and is always there to provide the time. When I'm out and about, my phone is generally in the diaper bag and out of sight/out of mind. On occasion, I'll send a text while playing with Daniel, but they are usually short and almost always have to do with him (playdates, doctor's appointments, updates to Daddy). I personally haven't jumped off of the "normal cell phone" bandwagon and after this weekend, I'm not sure that I want to.

Sunday, we stopped by a new park on our way home from church. A family of five arrived just as we did and boy, were they cute. The two older kids and the dad were on bikes; Mama pushed the youngest one in the stroller. I commented to Doug what an adorable family they were. And then the truth came out. . . Before the kids could even get their kickstands down, the mom pulled out her iPhone and totally disengaged from the family. Lord knows whether she was working, reading the news, or sending an email about a baby shower, but I was bothered. It was 72 degrees out, not a cloud in the sky, and her three kids were begging to play. The closest she came to playing was sitting on the swing next to her kids with her face buried in her touch screen. They were there less than 30 minutes, during which time I personally witnessed 3 incidents where she either couldn't find one of her children, one of her children was hurt and she (obviously) didn't know what happened, or one of her children was in a scuff with another neighborhood kid and she was completely unaware. Seeing what a mess of a distraction an iPhone could cause in a normal, every day situation disgusted me.

While I hope I would continue to use my phone intelligently (and appropriately), this woman was enough to make me think long and hard about upgrading my lowly little phone to something more powerful. I guess it's like anything else - if used appropriately, it could be a wonderful and powerful tool. If used irresponsibly, it could do some serious damage. It makes me wonder how a woman like that can set any limits for her children as she obviously cannot set any limits for herself. Thankfully, I can and do set limits. I suppose when the time comes that a smart phone is the only way to go, I'll continue to be thankful for those limits.

Empty

As full as my heart and my life are, our family has recently suffered a loss that has just left me. . . well, empty. Not completely empty, but there's definitely a hole there. As an only child, my cousins are my siblings. We grew up together, graduated together, partied together - I was even the Maid of Honor in one cousin's wedding. The first time I ever got drunk was with a cousin. The first time I ever got drunk enough to puke and pass out was with that same cousin.

My cousin C had a baby last week. Before Baby McK was born, they knew she would have many, many issues, some of which were not survivable. They knew that she had a fractured leg. They knew that she suffered from defects that are unheard of in most parts of the world. They knew she was likely a dwarf. But when Baby McK lived for an hour or so and went home to be with Jesus so quickly after she arrived, it just left me empty.

I think most of the problem is that C, B, and McK are in Alaska. I haven't seen C since before she knew she was pregnant. Traveling to Alaska isn't something one does on a whim. It's something that requires months of planning, preparation, and saving. Something that we're in no position to do right now, regardless of how dire the circumstances. I want more than anything to hug C and let her cry her eyes out. I want to tuck her into bed and tell B to go run until he can't feel his legs - to find some sort of release he can't find while caring for his broken and battered wife. I want to make breakfast, lunch, and dinner; do their laundry; rock T to sleep while C&B go away for an hour or two. I want to help.

Not being able to has not only left me empty, it's left me drained. It took me several days and many sleepless nights to put it all together, but my shortcoming has entered my dreams. The last 10 days or so, I've had wild, bizarre, and troublesome dreams. Today I realized that the theme of all of these dreams is helplessness. Whether I'm watching a bear maul a dog or trying to save the entire planet, I'm completely unable to help. I see the problem. I know the answer. And I can do nothing to change it.

Now that I've finally put my finger on it what's causing the dreams, hopefully they'll phase themselves out of my nighttime routine. Now that I'm able to recognize my guilt, frustration, and sadness about the situation, perhaps it will resolve itself. For now, I'm going to soak in a bubble bath surrounded by candles and classical music. For now, I'm going to think happy thoughts and try to envision paradise in my mind's eye before I drift off to Nod. And if that doesn't work? I guess I'll move on to Tylenol PM and a shot of warm milk. Heaven help me, because Lord knows I can't.

Seasons

I'm one of those people who just loves seasons. I love them all. Fall, Summer, Spring, Winter. There's something about each of those seasons that just makes me inherently happy. I look forward to each of them. After I've had my fill, I'm ready for each of them to leave. There are certain smells I associate with each season. Memories. Foods. Activities. Summer = Coppertone, snowcones, sand, salt, and swimming. Spring = Easter, shaking off chills, St. Patty's Day, Easter candy. . . Oh Easter candy! Winter = That bite of cold air that stings your nose and your toes, hot chocolate, CHRISTMAS! I have to admit, though, I do have a favorite.

Fall is on its way and I am as giddy as can be. Pumpkin lattes, gingerbread, Halloween, Thanksgiving, pumpkin patches, cooler air, lighter steps, my birthday, sweaters, hoodies - I just love Fall. Something about Fall just makes me wiggle a little. I'm sure it started when I was a kid. Of course your favorite time of year centers around your birthday, right? Who doesn't love celebrating their birthday??

As the years have gone by, Fall has come to mean a lot more to me than just getting older. To me, it's a new beginning. As a child, it was the beginning of a new school year. As an adult, it's the beginning of a new year of life - a new year of my life and a new year of my marriage. This October, I'll turn 31 and Doug and I will celebrate our sixth year of marriage. I'll eat lots of wonderful Fall foods (er, make that "Fall treats"), I'll make a Christmas list, and I'll Fall clean (which is really much better than Spring cleaning, mostly because it usually coincides with open windows and a loaf of pumpkin bread in the oven). I'll eat birthday cake, do something sweet for my husband for our anniversary, and I'll take more walks. I'll (of course) whine about my allergies, take more Claritin than is probably necessary, and bemoan the shorter days. But in all, I will look forward to each day (until the day after Thanksgiving - which is when I'll start wishing for Winter) and I will take advantage of all of the above with a better attitude than usual.

So come on, Fall! Come play and help me celebrate life in a pair of blue jeans and a hoodie. I've been looking forward to this.

Not me, Monday! Episode 5.

Today was a pretty rough day. Good thing it was not me who fell asleep on the couch while my son watched Toy Story for the fifteenth time since Friday. I'm not the kind of mama who believes in TV as a babysitter. In fact, I'm not really the kind of mama who believes in TV at all. When I first graduated from college, I didn't have cable because I couldn't afford it. Shortly after Doug and I got married, we didn't have cable because I realized that the introduction of something as mind-numbing and distracting as cable*** would be the death of our otherwise happy marriage.

See, Daniel hasn't napped since Friday. I know that in some circles, that's beyond a trend and is a new pattern that I should just adjust to and move on with life. But I'm not the kind of mama who decides that something is here to stay until it's really. Here. To. Stay. During our last napless run, I decided it was time for Daniel to have quiet time in his room for 30 minutes while I had quiet time in my head for 30 minutes to avoid spontaneous combustion. It worked. He played rather quietly while I dozed in and out of conciousness and rested just long enough to re-energize and tackle the rest of the day. Yesterday, that "quiet time" was rudely interupted by a very ill-timed diaper mishap. Today? Well, I guess it wasn't me who decided that a movie and a snack would suffice for our quiet time. Nearly an hour after I turned on the movie, I woke up (quite confused as to what I was doing asleep. . . ) and realized that 1. my house was still standing, 2. I felt human again, 3. my child was still in one piece, and 4. I had missed a text inviting us to play our napless afternoon away. Three out of four isn't bad.

So today, it wasn't me who said, "Hang the rules and half of my belief system - I'm taking a nap." It wasn't me who woke up from said nap with a new outlook on life. It wasn't me who ate my words in peace and quiet. And it most certainly wasn't me who shared all of this with the blogging world, outing myself and my moment of weakness.


***I didn't always feel this way about cable. It was only after falling madly in love with a man who has severe ADD that I developed these feelings. However, the longer I live without TV, the more I despise it. That is all.***

On the baby monitor

When Doug and I registered for the video baby monitor, we got a lot of unsolicited feedback.

"You'll never use that thing!"

"WE didn't have those when YOU were kids and YOU turned out just fine!"

"That's a little over-the-top, don't you think?"

Well, the truth of the matter is that we do use that thing. We've used it for every bedtime and naptime since Daniel was born. We didn't take it to Corpus with us for our first family vacation and regretted it every night we were there. We did take it to Phoenix for Thanksgiving and praised God for it every night we were there.

I recognize fully that baby gear today is not what it was 30 years ago - or heck, even 5 years ago. I know we got by without convertible car seats, video monitors, and bottle warmers. I know we survived when our parents fed us peanut butter before 1 and shellfish before 2. I know that Daniel doesn't sleep any better because of it. But I do. When we went through cry-it-out (all 55 times), I could take a quick look and know that he was ok. When he started crawling out of his crib, I could flip a switch when I heard a thump to verify that it was indeed just his foot banging the wall. How many saved trips into his room have there been because I was able to look at him without disturbing him? How many nights have I been able to push a button and know that a feverish baby was sleeping soundly? How many times would I have barged into his room to check on him (and of course woken him up) had we not had the monitor? Countless, I tell you!

How many absolutely hysterical things have we heard our child say that we would have never known about without the monitor? Just tonight, he was lying in bed saying, "Mater says 'Ka-chang!' Chick says, 'Ka-choo-ga!'" That's hilarious! A few weeks ago, Daniel was singing "Row, row, row your boat" in his sweet, sleepy little Daniel voice. In the mornings, I don't bolt into his room the moment I hear him stir. I grab the monitor and watch him stretch, play with his dragon, and talk to himself about his breakfast before I bother getting out of bed myself. Some of these memories are the ones I cherish the most. And nothing - nothing - compares to coming home on Mama's Night Out and hearing Doug read Daniel a bedtime story and say a bedtime prayer. Nothing could even come close to the sense of pride and love I feel for Doug as the father of my child when I hear him earnestly pray with our son. Go ahead and call me terrible - he knows I'm listening.

The problem with the monitor is not that we'll never use it or that it's space-aged or that it's something completely unnecessary. The problem is turning it off. I see the off switch. I understand the concept of pushing it and going to sleep. But something just won't let me do it. I tried to the other night and couldn't stand it for more than an hour. We've been teased by family that we're going to sit around watching Daniel after he's gone to bed for 15 years and that it'll be a violation of his privacy. While I don't think that's true, I do believe it is time to turn the monitor off. I'm just not sure I can or that I truly know how.

Falling in love

Not too long after I met Doug, I knew (well. . . we both knew) that this was happily ever after. We were in love. Twitterpated, as Bambi might say. Head over heels stupid for each other. I fell in love with his smile, his voice, his vast and unusual vocabulary (go ahead and call me a geek now); I fell hard.

When you fall in love, there are a lot of things you don't think about when you daydream about your Prince Charming. You don't consider what life will be like when your sweetheart is sick. You don't think about how you'll spend holidays after you're married with children. Sure, you might have all of your future children named and all 12 minutes of your wedding down to a fine science, but I definitely wasn't thinking about my inlaws when I was busy falling in love with my husband.

The minute I met FIL, I knew we'd get along great. Doug had told me all of these horror stories about how terrified ex-girlfriends had been of FIL. Word? FIL and I hit it off in no time flat. When I met MIL, I wasn't quite sure what to think. She seemed. . . displeased. It wasn't until later (much later) that I learned she felt it was far too early after a bad break-up for Doug to be getting into a serious relationship. BIL is too easy to like. He's a mess, but he's charming and says all of the right things with the right tone of voice and can smooth over just about anything. SIL - BIL's then girlfriend and now wife - well, let's just say we had very backwards ideas about each other.

Over the last 8 years, I've grown to love FIL and BIL more and more. Easily. Smoothly. Without any reservations. In 2005, SIL and I really hit it off. We had each married a Carey brother and finally got to spend some time together alone in Phoenix. I finally figured her out and opened up to her. Later that year, her mom passed away. Seeing that we're both only children, I'm the only other woman in her family (aside from MIL) and the tragic passing of her mom lead to a much closer relationship between the two of us.

MIL, on the other hand (if you're reading this, just keep on reading. This is some rough stuff to write, but I'm gonna make it.), was a tough, tough cookie for me. The first few visits were rough. I was nervous. I felt like I had to live up to something and I had NO idea what that something might be. I walked on eggshells. I avoided starting any conversations at all and after I was verbally bludgeoned for my views on illegal immigration, I don't think I spoke more than one sentence at a time for at least 2 years. I honestly spent more time in the bathroom than was necessary. Not to avoid her, but to pray for strength to get through our visits. I felt like I was on some sort of trial. My home. My relationship with Doug. The meals I cooked. My career choice. It was no fun.

Now that I'm a mama, we suddenly click. I think somehow I realize that as hard as it is to stomach, I was on trial. Was I good enough for Doug? Would I be a good mother to her grandchildren? What did I want with her son anyway? Now that Doug and I have a baby together and she sees the love I pour out on Daniel, does she see me for who I really am? Was she worried we wouldn't work well together as parents? It doesn't really matter which of these questions apply (if any). I really think that it was my realization that I really was on trial that made our relationship mesh. It took a long time for me to come to grips with the idea that she has every right to put me on trial (as a good mother to her son), but now that I get that, I'm much less edgy and a lot less defensive about . . . well. . . everything.

It's truly a miracle that we fall in love with one person deeply enough to vow to be committed to him for the rest of our lives. To fall in love with the entire family? That's something beyond miraculous. That's something extra-planetary. Thank God for minuscule odds.

Every time

On Father's Day, Daniel was very excited to give Doug his Father's Day gifts. We surprised Daddy in bed with a lie-in, finger painted picture frames, and a little poem with Daniel's footprints included. Daniel was so pleased by Doug's reaction that he jumped into the air and tumbled backwards out of the bed. Yup. You guessed it. He landed flat on his head. I scooped him up and rocked him; Doug wanted to go to the ER. Having lived through this before, I knew that wasn't necessary, but rather I knew what I needed to watch for.

I continued comforting Daniel and I gently explained that jumping on the bed always leads to a bump on the head. Our day went on, Daniel didn't jump on the bed again, and everything was dandy.

A few weeks later, Daniel was taking a wonderful nap in my bed. He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and sat up. He looked me right in the eye and said, "Every time I jump in the bed I bump my head. Every. Time." I think the message sunk in!

Birthday cake

Several months ago, my mom turned 58. Daniel and I practiced singing happy birthday to Gram over, and over, and over again. I used the opportunity to teach him about birthdays, birthday parties, birthday cake, and birthday presents. For weeks after Gram's birthday, I would ask Daniel what he wanted to sing in the car and he would answer, "Happy birfday, Gram!!" While he learned the song, he didn't quite get the concept.

Then the birthday season of our playgroup began and we had 5 birthday parties in about a 6-week span. Ding! Ding! Ding! Daniel got it! He understood that birthday = birthday party = birthday cake. He didn't quite get the presents thing as many of our friends requested "No gifts, please." During the birthday season, I asked Daniel what he wanted for his birthday. Without a breath of hesitation, he shouted, "BIRTHDAY CAKE!" Of all the things in the world he could have chosen, he wanted cake. That's my boy.

As the days ticked by, we talked more and more about his birthday, his party, the upcoming birthday visit from Nana, and many other birthday-related topics. When I asked Daniel what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday, I was expecting a very emphatic "CHOCOLATE!" What I heard surprised me. Daniel sat pondering for a moment, sighed a little sigh, smiled, and said, "Strawberry," in a very thoughtful tone of voice. I didn't try to talk him out of it, but I wanted to make sure he knew his options. He said he understood and he wanted strawberry.

My strawberry cake - I hate to brag - is excellent. It's from scratch and this year, Daddy, Nana, and Daniel went to the farmer's market to buy fresh, local, homegrown strawberries. This cake rocked. When I went in to Daniel's room on July 4 to wish him a happy second birthday, the first words out of his mouth were, "Eat birthday cake at Monica's house!" We had just gone to a birthday party at Monica's house the weekend before. I guess he was still a little hazy on the details. I explained to him that it was HIS birthday and we were going to eat strawberry cake at OUR house later that day. All day long, Daniel asked about that cake. He helped me make it after breakfast, watched it in the oven, asked about it when it was cooling on the counter, wanted to know where his candles were - that kid was interested! I kept reminding him that his cake had to cool, I had to ice it, and we were still waiting on our family to come over.

As you can well imagine, getting a 2-year-old to nap on his birthday is no small feat. He finally gave up and dozed off at about 4 that afternoon. I cuddled with him while he slept and snoozed a little myself. When Daniel woke up, his eyes popped wide open, he sat bolt-upright in bed, and said, "My cake's ready!!" I couldn't help but laugh. I hope fulfilling his birthday wishes are always so simple.

Alert!

I've decided that several Daniel stories need to be written down and saved forever. I'll be posting them here, just so that the formatting is cute. Please feel free to skip them!

Hormones are fickle things

I walked into Daniel's room today to toss a shirt in the laundry basket and was hit full-force with a memory. It was probably a conglomeration of memories, as this happened many nights when Daniel was still teeny tiny, but man. It was powerful. Daniel was still just a few weeks old. I was still waking up many times during the night to nurse, change diapers, eat snacks to satisfy my ravenous appetite, and of course, to just make sure he was still ok. I suppose it was something about the way that Mars aligned with my left shoulder, but suddenly, I was back there. In Spring, at our old home, with a tiny infant to care for. My senses were overwhelmed with the way I felt at 2:13 am. I could feel the sleep in my eyes and the grogginess in my limbs. I could smell his itty bitty baby smells. I could hear the tick of the clock and the hum of the white noise machine. I could almost see the dim light coming under the door from the other room. I could taste the peanut butter crackers I'd grabbed on the way in. I was all but there.

It wasn't the memory or the vividness of the memory that struck me. What struck me was this - I wanted to be there. It's not all that shocking to want to relive the past, but this was different. It was every sense of my self shouting at me that I want to be up in the middle of the night with a new one. I want to remember the way it feels to nurse a newborn. I want to do all of those things again. Right now.

I guess this was my body's way of telling me, "Hey dude. Get ready. 'Cause this is where we're headed." And I guess the craziest thing of all was that my response wasn't, "Ok . . . ?" It was, "When do we start????" Giddy with anticipation. Ready to meet a new Carey. Excited to bring another little life into the world. So come on, little one! Mama's ready for you!

Not me! Monday - Episode 4

Today, it was NOT ME who played gleefully in the rain with my child and his friends. It was NOT ME who willingly (and begrudgingly, if you can attain such a status) went to "the farm," aka, McDonald's. It was NOT ME who actually had mixed feelings about Daniel eating a chicken McNugget. If Daniel willingly ate chicken at other establishments - namely, my home - I wouldn't have cared. But Daniel doesn't willingly eat chicken. Ever. And his first bite of chicken that HE chose to consume was a . . . McNugget? Oh well.

It was NOT ME who spent 30 minutes vacuuming one room in my mother's house because Daniel wanted to. It was NOT ME who happily dozed in and out of consciousness with my little one while he napped a rainy afternoon away. It was NOT ME who gladly dug holes in our back flower bed because Daniel's request after naptime sounded something like this, "Mama! Let's go out there and dig in the dirt!!" Who refuses that?

It was NOT ME who read my most recent blog and felt like smashing my head into a wall for being such a whiny twit. It is NOT ME who writes this blog feeling a tad on the bi-polar side for having such severe blog mood swings. It is most certainly NOT ME who feels like I've somehow turned over a new leaf by having three amazing days in a row. And again, it is NOT ME who sighs a sigh of contentment and wishes I could hold on to days like these forever.

A quick vent

It seems that EVERYONE I know is somehow making time in their lives to leave their children behind and take a much-needed and long overdue vacation. Not us. I'm not asking for Vegas, Napa, Honolulu, or even just the Melting Pot. All I want is 2 or 3 hours alone with my husband to reconnect and breathe and I can't seem to manage that.

I feel like I'm chasing my tail. I feel like no matter how good Daniel is or what a great nap he takes, I'm still just flat out of gas at the end of the day. Regardless of how many times he peepees in the potty or says please and thank you, regardless of how helpful Doug is when he gets home from work, regardless of how helpful my dad is when we're with family - I need a break. Not a big break. Just a little teeny break to take a deep breath and remember what I'm doing. Just a few moments to sit down and not worry about how many more loads of laundry there are to do, how many more tiles need to come off the wall, how many more rooms there are to mop. How much is left to do. I just want a day (or even just half a day) where I don't have to do anything. I could sit on the couch and read. I could tell Doug about my latest idea without having to pause every 30 seconds to ask Daniel to repeat what he just asked for. I could go to the bathroom without help and without having to relinquish my spot on the potty for somebody who needs it more desperately than I do.

So that's all. I know there are no solutions. I know that break isn't coming. I know the best I can do right now is a 3-hour break to go clean someone else's house. But that doesn't make me want it any less. Doesn't make it any easier to pick myself up and keep going. This is one loooong tunnel and I sure don't see any light.

Strangely unmotivated

A few weeks ago, I complained about Doug monopolizing the computers in our home. Now that he's moved on from Linux and we've turned our bathroom completely upside down, I am strangely unmotivated to write. I finally have access to the computer again, I have a list of blogs I'd like to write, and somehow, I'm not writing them.

Since when did Daniel become a full-contact sport?
Love in the in-law sense of the word
Fear (specifically about my mom's upcoming surgery)
Respect (specifically about those who KNOW what they want out of life)

There are others, but those are the blogs that are plaguing me. I keep a note running in my cell phone of blogs I need to get around to. I've even starting writing one or two of the blogs listed above several times. I get a line or two into them and decide I don't like the direction they're taking. I save the title; delete the blog.

I think this was the whole point of the Not Me! Monday and the PSF blogs, but somehow, the point was lost on me (which is strange, because I'm the one who made the point. . . ). The point was to keep me on a blogging schedule. Not just to post something, but to find time in my life to write. Somehow, I've managed to find a million other things to fill my time with. Perhaps when that list does not include drywall repair, tiling, and plumbing, I'll find more time to write.

Until then, that is all. Just know that I have thoughts in my head I'd love to "put on paper," I just can't seem to get going.

Finger paints and friends

I was just complaining to a friend today that my husband has hijacked all of the computer-esque devices in our home to "play" with Linux. He's driving me crazy (and severely interrupting my blog life), but that's ok. Why, you ask? Because of days like today.

We had six of our very best friends over today (in alphabetical order) - Abby, Audrey, Caleb, Little, Little B, and Will - and we finger painted picture frames for Father's Day. It. Was. Fun.

***Please note that the above mentioned friends included their mommies, their little sisters, their big brothers, and their little brothers as well. Also, two of the names have been changed to reflect what their mommies call them in their own blogs. Thank you. Please read on.***

It was pure and utter chaos, but the kids had a blast, the moms got to catch up, and the dads all get something handmade from their little ones for Father's Day. How do you lose on a day like today?

T Rex

Long ago, in an office building far, far away, I wasn't "just a mom." I had deadlines, budgets, PTO days, and an office with a window and a door. When I was pretty pregnant with Daniel, my froworkers (friends + coworkers = froworkers) threw me a baby shower. It was really, really nice. I got all sorts of amazing stuff. Handmade blankets, a gift card to the spa, a million other really nice things, and a ginormous t rex (featured in Disney's Toy Story). Rex's job was to watch over the crib as I believed he was entirely too large to go in the crib with my child. When Daniel was born, Rex was probably 3 times larger than my teeny baby.

A week ago, we converted Daniel's crib into a toddler bed:

Since then, Daniel, for some odd reason, has decided that Rex needs to go to bed with him. Rex needs to read stories with him. Rex needs to work on the a/c with him:

This morning, at about 4:00, Rex fell out of the bed. Daniel very carefully lowered himself out of bed, hoisted Rex back into bed, cuddled up with him, and went back to sleep. I'm not sure what prompted this new obsession, but it sure is funny. I'm just waiting for the day that he decides Rex needs to go in the car with us. We'll have to purchase a second car seat!

Foto Friday

Friday, my dad and I rented a jackhammer to take down the basketball post about which our HOA has sent 5 letters. Count them - one, two, three, four, five.

Daniel helped (by sitting in my car and eating goldfish).

Then he made his own jackhammer out of a USB cable and a Little Tykes screwdriver.

Daddy brought home something shiny for Mama.

Mama cried. The end.

Hawaii

I was recently talking with a good friend about our respective honeymoons in Hawaii and something occurred to me. Hawaii? It gets in your bones. Once you've stepped off of the plane and into the trade winds, something in your soul changes.

It's been nearly 6 years since Doug and I tied the knot on the little island of Kauai and I can still smell the plumeria. I can close my eyes and go directly to a little grass hut. In that hut, there's a girl wearing long skirts and a bandana. She's holding a ukulele, but she isn't playing it. Her eyes are closed and she's singing the most beautiful rendition of Ave Maria I've ever heard. Doug and I are sitting at a tiny table for two. We're under the stars and have been married for approximately 12 hours. I'm eating a fish sandwich and enjoying a beer. We'll soon head for our condo and fall asleep watching Braveheart.

I'm sure that most people have the unique experience of having their wedding day "burned" into their brains. Me? I have the unique experience of having an entire 10 days of my destination wedding latched onto my soul. I long to go back. I long to walk on the beach where Doug and I said, "I do." I yearn for that tiny slice of perfection, even if most of the perfection has been washed into the sea by the Pacific waves and remains mostly in my head. I have dreams about macadamia nut pancakes and pineapple syrup. I have to wonder if Mai Tais taste better in Hawaii than they do in Texas.

Something about Hawaii calls to me (and to everyone else I know who has been there). There's something majestic about it. Something ancient and pure and. . . perfect. Something other than the eight-hour flight asks to be a part of my life again and I listen. Some day, we'll go back. But until then, we are so very blessed to have such vivid memories of a beautiful, wondrous, sacred place. Until we manage to make it back, I'll just surround myself with plumeria-scented candles, photos of Birds of Paradise, and sarongs and wait patiently. Aloha and mahola, Hawaii. It was nice to meet you.

Not Me! Monday! Episode 3

Oh. Dear. God. This has literally been the shittiest day of my entire life. It was not me who spent Daniel's entire nap scrubbing dog poop out of my carpet. One more reason to hate carpet and one more reason to start locking the dogs in the kitchen when I leave the house. It was not me who had to fish my child and his poop out of the bathtub tonight. It was not me who swore that I would be showering with bleach and a Brillo pad tonight.

It was not me who finished my blog last Monday only to sit down in the backyard and cry for another hour. It was not me who claimed that our calendar was wrong and declared that May 15 would be Mother's Day at the Carey household. It was not me who woke up to homemade waffles yesterday morning. And it was not me who spent 3 hours digging in the dirt while Doug and Daniel detailed my car. Nor was it me who burst into tears (again) this morning when Doug revealed my "real" Mother's Day gift to me. He's having a ring made for me. Word? It's going to be the complement to my wedding ring (which is also my engagement ring) and I can't wait to see it. He designed it and the jeweler is working on it now. So it won't be me who drops in on the jeweler tomorrow to have my wedding band cleaned and to have my finger measured for a new ring. Sweet!

Ugh. It is also not me who is getting ready to attack the carpet with more carpet cleaner nor is it me who will be lighting yet another candle before joining the Brillo pad and bleach in the shower.

Seriously? Ugh.

I went and had my hair trimmed today. Ugh. I feel like it's SO much longer than this:
















But I guess it is some better than this:
















Oh wait! Now that I see them together, I realize that it HAS grown! A lot! It's just not nearly as long as it seems. That's probably because summer is upon us, it's hot, and it's touching me. I did learn today, though, that it's ok to use a ponytail holder. I thought they all broke your hair. Nope! Just the ones with metal involved. You learn something new every day.

Happy growing!

Hearsay

Little girl (age 4) - Daddy? What did Coco (recently deceased family cat) die of?

Daddy (CFO of major electrical contractor) - Coco died of cancer.

Little girl (thoughtfully) - Cancer like Mimi died from?

Daddy - Yeah. Kind of like that.

Little girl - Huh. I didn't know cats could smoke.

Not Me! Monday! Episode 2

Literally, this was not my first Mother's Day. It was technically my third as we celebrated the first one before Daniel was born in anticipation of Mother's Days to come. It was alright. Well, let's face it. It was pretty terrible. My usually really-good-about-stuff-like-this husband announced to me at 4:58 on Saturday night that he "figure(d) he better get something for (his) mother for Mother's Day." I calmly informed him that I already had her a card from Daniel, that we were buying breakfast in the morning, and that he had approximately 4 hours to figure something out for this mother before he was in trouble.

It was not me who spent the entire day Sunday waiting and hoping that my husband would spring a surprise Mother's Day treat and/or announcement on me, e.g., "I'm sending you to the spa next weekend," or, "Here's your card (which happens to include a gift card to your favorite nail salon)," or, "I'm taking you out for sushi tonight." It was not me who announced at dinner that no, I wasn't mad (literally) because I understood that he had been busy with finals, preparing for his presentation, and anticipating his mother's visit. It was not me who put on a happy face and tried really hard to convince myself that all of these things were true (which they are) AND that I was really ok with it. I guess in all actuality, yesterday wasn't so bad. It was today that really got me.

Today, it was most certainly not me who spent the entire day fighting back tears to the point of a severe headache. It was not me who kindly and sincerely responded to Mother's Day e-cards, e-mails, and texts through blurred, teary vision. It was not me who went to my best friend's house and cried while sitting in her glider because Mother's Day had gone by without my husband recognizing me in any way, shape, or form. It was not me who cried through "The Wheels on the Bus" as I drove home from my best friend's house.

I'm not usually the kind of girl to get worked up over stuff like this. For whatever reason, it really, really stung this time. When Doug finally got home, it was not me who cried and cried and cried trying to explain to him why I needed him to recognize me yesterday. It was not me who finally came to the conclusion that no matter what he did or said, I was still going to be hurt.

And last but not least, it was certainly not me who poured my heart out in this blog only to disable the comments. It's one thing to cry to the world, but to hear them cry back is another altogether. So thanks for reading and even though I didn't give you a choice, thanks for not commenting.

Ode to the Cottonwood

Reaching to the sky
Majestic. Swaying. Annoying.
Leaves drop to cover the ground
Through endless raking
Back-breaking and painful.
Seeds hang from your bales
Christmas garland; childhood memories.
Explosion of cotton. Explosion of sinus hell.
Drainage. Sniffing. Tearing at my eyes.
Sneeze. Wheeze. PLEASE!
Anxiously awaiting the end of Spring --
Summer scorch me, please.
I long to enjoy your shade again.

Foto Friday

Boardwalk fun. Late night sprinklers. Happy baby and happy puppy. Life is good!

Not Me! Monday! Episode 1

Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.



It was NOT ME who called an a/c repair man out to "fix" the a/c that wouldn't cool and wound up paying him to pick cottonwood fluff out of the a/c unit. It was certainly NOT ME who seriously considered sending the $85 bill to the neighbors who play host to the abominable beast of a tree. It was NOT ME who made the same neighbor's child remove himself from my garage while playing hide and seek with his brother. It was NOT ME who considered that the neighbor kid may amputate a digit while hiding behind my treadmill.

It was NOT ME who ran rampant through the house during nap time, straightening and otherwise de-cluttering in anticipation of the fast-approaching visit from my mother-in-law and her beau (who we have recently decided to just call "G"). It was NOT ME who spent nearly 20 minutes alphabetizing the DVDs in the guest room. It was NOT ME who nearly danced with delight when I realized that a crib AND a queen-sized bed could fit into the guest room (and future nursery). It was NOT ME who nearly cried, remembering nursing Daniel in that guest bed so many moons ago (by many moons, I mean almost 2 years as the bed went into storage when he was 11 weeks old).

If you saw anyone who resembled me doing any of these things, you are a stalker and deserve what you get! If you didn't see me do these things, it's because it was NOT ME.

Warning

In an effort to blog more often, I think I'm going to start doing those little trendy daily posts. You know the ones. Foto Friday? Not Me Monday? Works for Me Wednesday? I haven't decided which of these I'll be tormenting you with, but I seem to find fewer and fewer opportunities to blog. I have several in mind that I need to draft and post, but I just can't seem to find the time between bed times, ear infections, allergies, etc. Hopefully these catchy little blog tags will help me throw something together at least once a week.

In the meantime, I'll just remind myself that yes, I do have to write the blog about Daniel being a full-contact sport. I do have pesky cottonwood allergies to complain about (thus outlining my plot to rid LC, TX of the darned trees that cause them). I do have many things to look forward to (or dread, depending on how things go). And I will some day make time to blog about these things.

Until then, a smooth bed time and a particularly nasty flare-up of allergies (and therefore a likely pending ear infection and consequent late-night waking) have inspired me to go to bed early. Until next week, good night stars. Good night air. Good night bloggers everywhere.

Sometimes, almost is enough

Last Friday, Doug and I were sitting on the couch discussing our plans for the weekend. As far as our weekends go, they typically involve me taking Daniel to do something really cool and fun while Doug stays at home and slaves away over his final college assignment. And when I say final, I. Mean. Final.

Most weekends we have a birthday party or some other event on Saturday with church and a visit with my parents on Sunday. It's getting old. Really old. I'm tired of having to share Daniel's life with Doug via, "Daniel! Tell Daddy what you did today!" Of course it was fun (and unique) to go to the zoo alone with Daniel, but reliving the experience for Daddy when we get home is a far cry from Daddy actually getting to take part in the fun. Sundays are almost worse. It's been nice to get into a church-going routine, but there's just something not quite right about attending church without your spouse. It feels. . . bleh. It just feels wrong. Not to mention that the "family time" we spend at my parents' house afterwards is missing a big, ol' chunk of our family.

At any rate, we were on the couch, discussing our weekend plans, and it occurred to me that Doug will be finished with school in two. More. Weekends. I was sitting there telling him what things I had planned for Daniel and me for the next few weekends and WHAM! It hit me that we had a swim date, a youth fair, and a birthday party and we. Are. Done. (Please forgive the heavy emphasis - this is just a really. Big. Deal.)

I almost burst into tears. Knowing that the end is in sight, knowing that I only have to make it through two more weekends sans hubby, knowing that we're almost there - this time? It was enough. It's been enough to vault me into some place of higher understanding that everything - everything - is temporary. These last eight years of really, really hard work and really, really long nights of missing my husband while he trudges through the mud of academia have been temporary. One day (hopefully in the not-too-distant future) we'll look back on this season of our lives and we'll say, "Wow. That was hard. How did we do that?" We'll be on to t-ball, soccer, PTA, and Lord knows what else, and we'll look back on this part of our journey and we'll know that it was temporary. It's over. It was hard, but it's over.

Sometimes, almost isn't good enough. Sometimes, almost means the difference in making it and not making it. It means something more concrete. But this time? This time almost is enough. We're almost there. And ya know? For the first time in eight years, I can wait.

Hair, hair, hair

I don't have a new pic to upload of my hair from the back, so this will have to work (note Daniel's ponytail - mine is marginally longer). It's growing, alright. My dad - who still offers me Cokes with every meal even though I gave them up for my New Year's Resolution in 1997 - asked me today if I was growing out my hair. If my poor, unobservant daddy noticed, it must be growing.

It's also starting to drive me a little (read - a LOT) crazy. It's touching me. It makes my neck sweat at night. I don't like it. My child dislikes the hair drier so I spend most days with it either in a ponytail or just looking like I rolled out of bed and did nothing with it. But I keep reminding myself of the annoying things cancer patients must deal with. Nausea. Shunts jabbed into their arms. Fatigue. Pain. Funny looks from people in public places. I keep reminding myself that my little ponytail is much preferable to a bald head and missing eyebrows. I keep reminding myself that this is supposed to be a selfless act and therefore my discomfort should not be a factor.

I swore that I wouldn't measure it again until Valentine's Day of 2011. I won't, but I did schedule my first trim since November. I plan on asking my stylist how much she thinks it's grown and how much longer she thinks I have to grow. I'm not interested in hard numbers for another 10 months. Although I won't have any numbers to share next month, at least I'll have a picture of pretty, styled hair to share. That should be nice - not just the photo, but the hour to myself in a salon with grown-ups. Always a nice treat!

Until then. . .

How do you love somebody?

I went to church Sunday morning. Alone. For the first time ever (I think). Well, not completely alone. I took Daniel to the nursery, kissed him goodbye, and went to church. It was nice. Really nice. Not to be in church alone, but to be able to drop off my little one and go listen to a sermon my heart really needed to hear.

We've been going to a Presbyterian church. I'm not Presbyterian and neither is Doug. To be honest, I can't even spell Presbyterian half of the time. I'm not sure if a Prayer of Confession is a routine item for these guys, but this Sunday's service featured a Prayer of Confession. Having grown up in the Baptist church, actual "confession" is not something I'm accustomed to. Sure - I ask for forgiveness for particular sins. But I've never been required (or asked) to confess to anyone at any specific time. It didn't make me uncomfortable; it just made me stop and think about my shortcomings (which isn't hard for me to do).

After fumbling around for a bit, I prayed for God to show me how to be a better wife. I confessed that I don't always do and say the things that Doug needs to hear and see. I admitted that sometimes, I don't know exactly how I should be Doug's wife. I even considered that maybe I don't even know what makes Doug feel loved. I asked God to teach me how to better love my husband. Then I teared up a little bit, took a deep breath, and continued listening.

Lo and behold, the sermon was about love. Go figure. We even sang a bit of The Beatles' "All You Need Is Love." The last thing the preacher asked us to do was to 1.) spend the week praying about loving one person in particular and 2.) consider joining a small group. The 2.) part seems disconnected, but she did a really good job of tying it in - be a part of your community and love thy neighbor. Got it.

How often does this really happen? How often do you sit in a pew (or a stadium seat, on a couch, or whatever) and ask God to show you something and then KAPOW! The next words out of the speaker's mouth pertain directly to your plea? Whoa. Wild.

I've challenged myself this week (and hopefully for the rest of my life) to focus on loving Doug the way he wants and needs to be loved. I know how I show love and how I feel love, but Doug's idea is just a smidge different from mine. So the next time I think that washing, drying, folding, and putting away Doug's laundry will make him feel loved, I pray that God will remind me that I'm doing that for myself. What Doug really needs is to be told how much he is loved rather than to be shown.

Memory

I shared a memory with a friend the other night over delicious cheese and several glasses of wine. The more I've relived that memory in the week since, the more real it's become. I love experiences like that. The kind that really affect you when they happen but continue to do so for a full decade after. A two-minute window of life that really gets you in the gut once and then brings you to your knees a thousand times after. A friend who can orchestrate that sort of emotion in me from a thousand miles away without even realizing it is a true friend indeed. Perhaps even a friend of my soul; not just of my mind.

I miss you, Rob. Thanks for the sunflowers.

Bliss

My baby boy told me that I had pretty, brown eyes today. Of course he has no way of knowing this, but when I was (very) young, I would imagine my future hubby-to-be singing (or saying) to me Van Morrison's Brown-Eyed Girl. Who knew I would be fortunate enough to hear two wonderful boys fawn over my brown eyes? Sigh. Content.

I wonder

Sometimes, I really have to wonder. I won't go into specifics (and don't bother asking), but the things that people do are sometimes just shocking and often heart breaking.

I guess this is just a plea to God, my friends, and the universe in general - If I ever do anything that completely shocks you, you have my full permission to punch me in the face. By shock, I do not mean oh-my-God-what-was-she-thinking-when-she-cut-her-hair-that-way. More along the lines of oh-my-God-that-poor-child-never-stands-a-chance-with-a-mother-that-wacky.

Thanks.

Month 2

So I don't have anything to say about my hair, really, except that it's there. I haven't had any life-altering experiences (yet) and I don't feel like shaving my head (yet). I can, however, put it in a ponytail. Woohoo!

Maybe by tax day I'll have something to add to the photo, but for now, here is month 1:

And month 2:

I think it's at least filled in a little. Maybe not. I've got a loooong way to go.

Truce

On February 15, I declared war on my child. It's a long, pitiful story that I won't bore you with, but it has to do with sleep. Naps, in particular. Today - March 12, less than a month after I declared war - I have called a truce.

They say that a stupid person is one who continues to attack the same problem in the same way over and over expecting different results. Well, today. . . I realized that's what I was doing. Somehow, in my I-am-mother-hear-me-roar head, I decided that Daniel was going to take a nap at 11:00 in his own crib come hell or high water. Well, hell didn't come. But when I surrendered (again) yesterday and went to get my wailing child out of his crib, I stepped on wet carpet (i.e., high water). Wet with my baby's tears. There is something - who knows what - about taking a nap in his crib that upsets him. Upsets him to the point that he cannot calm himself down, cannot tell me what it is, and absolutely cannot go to sleep. Not only can he not go to sleep, but we spend the rest of the afternoon counting down the minutes until Daddy gets home and after Daddy gets home, we spend the rest of the evening trying to explain to Daniel why he can't go to bed yet. Mis-er-a-ble.

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday of this week have been three of the best days we've had in over a month. What was different? Naptime. I surrendered and curled up with my baby in my bed and we both slept. Snored. Drooled. Slept. And when Daniel woke up, he was - wait for it - in a good mood.

So it comes down to this - Am I stubborn enough to keep fighting with my exhausted, tortured child that I'm willing to sacrifice our happiness? Nope. I decided today that no amount of household chores are worth that. That's what I aim(ed) to do during Daniel's Utopian nap. Mop my kitchen floor. Put on my lasagna. Tape off the spare bedroom so I can paint after he goes to bed. Really? Is it really worth all of the tears, the anguish, the drama for chores? Really?

Many of you are reading this and thinking to yourselves, But she said that she'd be damned before she'd load the whole family into the car to get Big Brother to take a nap once Little Brother/Sister comes along. What happened to that? Well, what happened to that is this - Each and every day, Daniel tells me a little bit more about what's going on in his head. Seeing that said Little Brother/Sister hasn't even been conceived yet, I'm hoping (praying, begging, depending upon) that by the time said child arrives, Daniel will be able to tell me what bothers him so severely about napping. He'll be able to say, "Mama. I want to eat lunch before I take a nap. And can we please leave the door open?" And I'll smile and say of course and we'll all be happier and no worse for the wear.

So there ya have it. The white flag has been raised and so have my spirits. Sleep well, little one.

Streeeeeetch

When I was pregnant with Daniel, I was moderately concerned about turning into my mother. My parents met at the beach Labor Day weekend in 1968. They met while surfing. Yup, that's right. My mom used to surf. In the dark. In the winter. With no wetsuit. They spent hours and hours and hours floating around the ocean in Galveston, Corpus, Surfside, and Port I. After I was born, we still went to the beach but my mother no longer gets in the water because "there are things in the water." Really? I had no idea.

When I was 11 weeks pregnant with Daniel, we went to Costa Rica on our babymoon. We didn't do a whole lot. I was pregnant. We did manage to get in some surfing, hiking, swimming, and turtle watching. When I was about 20 weeks pregnant, I painted Daniel's room. Don't tell my mom (or Doug), but I stood on a bar stool to cut in the ceiling. When I was 37 weeks pregnant, Doug made me stop mowing the lawn. That was Father's Day weekend. June. Houston. Hot. Point being, my attitude about being pregnant was that I was pregnant, not broken.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was afraid that once Daniel arrived, I would become a wuss. There would suddenly be things in the water. I would recognize the dangers of every action I had ever taken and I would be so much more responsible (read - boring) after becoming a mama. I would over analyze everything, thus taking the fun out of most things. I didn't want to become that mom, but I was afraid of it, nonetheless.**

Since Daniel arrived, I have found the complete and total opposite to be true. I find myself trying and doing things I would have never considered before he was born. I don't want my irrational fears and silly preferences to influence him so strongly that he never tries anything that Mama doesn't like. I'm so married to this idea that I willingly touched a stingray at the Phoenix zoo and petted some sort of creepy sea urchin thing. I voluntarily went into the reptile house at the Houston zoo (which I have not entered in over 20 years). I ate salmon last night and get this - I actually enjoyed it! And today, I overcame my irrational belief that carnival rides are unsafe and I rode not one or two, but three carnival rides.

I have always believed that carnival rides are unsafe. My mother did this to me. She very astutely pointed out to me (repeatedly) as a young child that those rides bounce up and down the freeway at high speeds and surely they are missing screws. There are no laws, you know, that require those drunk carnies to actually check that the rides aren't missing pieces before they turn them on.

But today. . . today was for Daniel. Today I rode in a spinning dragon, a carousel (I know that doesn't really count), a bouncy four-wheeler thingy, and I lived to tell the tale. Shocking. I know. I can't believe it myself, but here I sit. Blogging away. I have to admit, though, I was quite pleased when Daniel made me get out of the pink, flying pig and get our tickets back. He was quite finished with carnival rides.

Each time I venture into one of these uncharted (or at least uncomfortable) places, I find myself stretching just a little bit more. I wonder that if by hiding (or at least masking) my irrational fears and silly preferences, I just might learn something about myself. So far, the list isn't too bad. Who couldn't use some more salmon and omega-3 in their diet?

**Please note that my mother is NOT that mom; she just won't swim in the ocean anymore. Such a shame.

Lent

I'm not Catholic and I'll be the first to admit that I really don't get Lent. I mean. . . I guess I get it, but I don't really know all the rules, the reasons, and the who/what/why/when/where/how behind it. I know that you're supposed to make a sacrifice (I think) that begins on Ash Wednesday and ends on Easter Sunday. I get that growing up, most of my Catholic friends gave up sodas, candy, chocolate, or swearing. I get that a lot of those same "sacrifices" apply to my adult friends.

I've never "given anything up" for Lent before. It's not required of my faith and I don't (usually) feel personally compelled to better myself for a short period of time. New Year's resolutions do that for me and they tend to stick. In 1997, for example, I gave up sodas. In 2010, I still don't drink sodas.

This year was a bit different. My "sacrifice" isn't really a sacrifice at all, but more of a new perspective that might take some getting used to. On Ash Wednesday, it was (indirectly) brought to my attention that I'd been using Facebook to vent, whine, cry, and otherwise be obnoxious. Who wants to hear/read that? Not me. No time like the present, right? Let's "give up" negative Facebook status updates for Lent (read stop using Facebook to whine).

Do I honestly believe that by making this "sacrifice" that I'll better understand Christ's sacrifice for me? No. Do I believe that it will get me closer to God? No. Do I believe that it will potentially improve my attitude, thus making me a happier person, a better friend, and a less whiny wife? Heck yeah. So far, I think it's working. It's helping me to focus on the silver lining, so to speak, and it's forcing me to shout joyous things to the world rather than beat myself up over Daniel's naptime. It might not fit the rules and it might not really be considered a sacrifice, but man - it sure has helped.

So thanks, world, for bringing this obnoxious habit to my attention at the right moment for me to do something about it. I feel better already.

Welcome home, Jason

I have no idea who Jason is, really, but evidently, he's coming home. About a week or so ago, I noticed several signs posted at every entrance and major intersection in my neighborhood. Welcome home, Jason! Most were surrounded by a little half-circle of teensy American flags. Many had stars-and-stripes balloons attached. None were harassed by the HOA, the landscapers, or even the weather.

I found myself thinking a lot about Jason. Who is he? Where's he been? Iraq, I'd imagine. Is he 18? Enlisted? An officer? Is this his first tour? Or does his family do this every time he comes home? Do these signs embarrass him, or make him proud? Ohhhh. What's his favorite Tex-Mex place he missed while away? Is he a Marine? Maybe Coastguard? Who knows?

I would imagine that these signs had many other people in my neighborhood wondering a few of these same things. How many of us acted on our thoughts? One. One woman (judging by the handwriting). On my way home the other day, I noticed a new sign, just off to the side of the main entrance of my neighborhood. "Welcome home, and THANK YOU. God bless you and your family." Wow. I was so touched. My heart swelled with admiration, both for Jason and for his new friend. For Jason, because he was brave enough to go God-knows-where and face God-knows-what to serve our country. And for this woman, because she was brave enough to make her sign, hop out of her car, and courageously stake her thoughts into the ground.

So welcome home, Jason. I hope you enjoy your time with your family, your endless supply of fresh tortillas and hot water, and your new friend who is thankful for you and your sacrifice. God bless you indeed.

Growing already

No, I'm not talking about my hair. I'm talking about my heart. And I know I said I would blog about this monthly, but this is good.


Less than a week into this Beautiful Lengths journey, I've already had a mind-boggling experience. I've never been on a mission trip and I've never done Habitat for Humanity. I've volunteered a few times - once because I was made to (which really means I didn't volunteer. . . ), a few times to fulfill an NHS requirement, and a time or two just because I cared. None of those stints made me feel like I was growing as a person.


I sent Beth my blog about my hair and her fight. She wrote back. That's where the growing comes in. I've always heard people come back from the mission field or from volunteering in the slums and they always say something like this: I thought I was doing this to help others, but I had no idea what it would do for me.


I never really understood that until Sunday. Beth's email humbled me and made me feel a thousand emotions all at once. She thanked me and told me she was honored to know me. Huh? Wow. I felt like I needed to do this to show her how honored I was to know her. And in the process I get praised? Cool! Then she told me that she shaved her head this weekend. Not cool.


You always hear people talk about "His perfect timing." Sometimes that makes sense to us. Sometimes we can relate. Sometimes - when we're hurting, struggling, fighting, falling - we have no idea what God could possibly be waiting for. I guess this weekend was a perfect example of His perfect timing. When Beth was hitting a low, I sent her a high, without knowing it, of course. I just wanted to share my blog with her and in turn, lifted her spirits, gave her new hope, and grew a bit in the process. Cool.

Beautiful Lengths

"We never touch people so lightly that we do not leave a trace."
Peggy Tabor Millin


My former boss's boss - a long-time friend and mentor - was very recently diagnosed with stage IIa breast cancer. For the sake of anonymity, we'll call her Beth. I met Beth in March of 2002. I was 22. Right out of college. Anxious, excited, and ready to start my career. Beth had been with the company for a while, perhaps 15 years at the time. She'd seen it all - from the dot-matrix printer in '86 to the Swan Hotel in Orlando in '00 - and she was ready to share her experience with me, professional and personal.


Beth figured out pretty early on that I learn best by "falling flat on my face." Wow. It's hard to see that in black and white, but it's oh-so true. She helped guide me through my 6-plus years with the company. Sometimes directly. Sometimes indirectly. A lot of times, by stepping back and watching me make an absolute fool of myself. The most important lessons are the hardest learned.


Three weeks ago, I got an email from my former boss, letting me know about Beth's diagnosis. She very delicately handled the news and wanted to share it with those who worked for and with Beth. My jaw dropped open. My heart sank. Beth? Really? Of all the people I've run across in my life. . . really? I wasn't sure what to do or say. I sent her a card. I've been praying. I almost always either run the Komen 5K or at least support someone who will be running. I felt like I needed to do something bigger. I wasn't sure what, or where to start, but I knew I needed to do something.


Then it hit me. Another friend of mine recently donated her beautiful ponytail to Pantene's Beautiful Lengths. Now I don't have a ponytail and I haven't in many years, but this. . . this is something I can do. This is a visible, physical thing I can do. Prayer is amazing. This I know. But it isn't anything out of the ordinary for me. Donating or participating in the Komen isn't anything new. Maybe I'll write BETH real big on the back of my shirt this year, but what is that doing? Nothing. Nada. It's the status quo. It's not hard. It's not a struggle. It's not . . . well. It's not anything, really.


Fighting cancer? Fighting cancer is extreme. Emotion. Exhaustion. Frustration. Questions. Doubt. Anxiety. Fear. Fatigue. Illness. Pain. Suffering. Exaltation, in the end. Fighting cancer is amazing. Victory. Triumph. Defeat. Falling down. Getting back up. Defiance. Believing in miracles, and in yourself. Fighting cancer is inspirational. Fighting cancer is the stuff heroes (and heroines) are made of. Hair? Wash. Rinse. Repeat. I can do this. I will do this. Not for me, but to remind myself of where Beth is going. And of where she's been. And of where she will one day stand, wearing her pink survivors shirt, proud as all get-out about her newly grown spiky, brunette hair that belongs to her. When she tosses her wig into the flames and laughs in cancer's face, maybe, just maybe, I will have been a teensy little part of that.



I plan to blog monthly about my own insignificant journey. I'll take a monthly photo to reassure myself that yes, it is growing. The first photo is of what my hair looked like the last time I had it cut (just before Thanksgiving). The second photo is today. Here goes nothin'.

Fear of the known

I was out running errands today and was reminded (painfully) of the inevitable. I, like you, am not getting any younger. There was this frail, little old man at Discount Tire today. Thank God he hadn't driven himself. He was there with his son (who happened to be about my dad's age). I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help but overhear a few snippets of their conversation.


Son: Do you need any groceries or anything while we're out?


Father (shaking head slowly): No. No. I think I have enough food to last me for. . . a little while.


Son: Well, is there anything else you'd like to do while we're out?


I didn't catch the response, but that painted enough of a picture to scare the hell out of me. I realized sitting there at Discount Tire that I am completely and totally terrified of getting old. This little old man was wearing a WWII veteran's hat. I could tell that once upon a time, you didn't mess with this guy. Once upon a time, this little old man was probably a lot like my own husband. Once upon a time, this little old man had bright eyes, a warm smile, and a kind word. Now? Now he "gets" to run errands with his son and has to be told which way the door is when it's time to go. Now I'm the one with the bright eyes and the smile; the one saying a silent prayer for God to watch after this little old man. I didn't have a kind word today, but I hope my smile helped.


This five-minute snapshot of this man's life overwhelmed me with a dreadful fear. A fear that someday, I'll be wearing an old, tattered Dive Cozumel shirt. I'll be out with Daniel (who will be my dad's age) and some 30-something will look at me and realize that she's scared to death of becoming me. I'm not afraid of 40, 50, or even 70. I'm really not even afraid of 80. What I'm frightened of is what my shell will be like when I get there.

Bittersweet

When I was pregnant with Daniel, I used to joke that Doug would be so engrossed in his video game that he wouldn't even realize that I had gone into labor until he heard the baby cry. It was mostly a joke, but I've always despised video games. Well, maybe not always, but at least since I ended a relationship over Everquest in college and the idiot I was dating didn't even realize it was over for several days because he was too caught up in his make-believe world. Doug told me then that when Daniel arrived, that would be the end of his "gaming" days. Not.

We haven't really fought-fought about his "habit" in a while, but Sunday. . . we sure did. I won't go into the details (there are some things I prefer to keep at least semi-private), but there were raised voices, a few tears, and definitely some hurt feelings (on my part). Suffice it to say that I often feel that the video game somehow takes precedence over me (or at least my feelings). We said we were sorry - him for choosing an inappropriate time to play the game; me for losing my temper. The discussion was over. I thought it was a closed book. Until Doug returned from the other room to snap the disc in half and throw it away.

. . .

I had no idea what to say or do. He wasn't angry. He was just finished, I guess. Finished hearing me reference "that stupid game" in nearly every argument we've ever had. He pitched it in the trash and went about his business. What to do? Laugh? Cry? Say "thank you?" I was at a total loss. I guess waiting for it to happen for 2+ years just made it that much more. . . awkward, I guess. I haven't said a word. He hasn't said a word. Things have been a LOT better since, so I guess, perhaps, it should go left unsaid (whatever "it" is).

Isn't it funny? You want something for ages - regardless of how insignificant it is - and when you finally get it, you don't know what to do with it. I guess that's why we're taught not to covet. When you finally do get the forbidden fruit, it just doesn't seem all that sweet after all.

Finding balance

This semester is weird. Doug is (going to be) home for dinner every night - woohoo! But Daniel's bedtime has quickly become study time for Doug. I find myself at a loss. You would think I'd be able to occupy myself just fine. I managed nights alone several nights a week for (literally) years. With Doug home (and busy), I just can't quite figure out to do with myself.

Watching a movie is out. We have a very open living area, part of which serves as a study/dining room. That's where Doug studies, less than 10 feet from the TV. Cleaning? Eh. I do most of that during nap time. Cooking? There ya go. I love to bake when the mood strikes and lately, that happens often. I'm on a mini muffin kick. Since Christmas, I've made mini/many of the following: pancake muffins, pumpkin butterscotch muffins, cinnamon muffins, pecan pie muffins, orange muffins, and pending peanut butter muffins. I'm not quite burned out, but I can't see making a batch of mini muffins every night when Daniel goes to bed for the next four months.

Part of my resolution for 2010 was to read the Bible. My One-Year Bible arrived yesterday and so far, I'm on track. The readings are short, though, and I finish them in about 20 minutes. I should devote some of this time to prayer or further Bible study, but I'm having challenges getting motivated. Last night, I finished 2 chapters of Genesis, 2 chapters of Matthew, and a passage from Psalm and promptly moved on to my book about witches and vampires. See what I mean about motivation?

I'd love to blog more, but I just don't have that much to say. Well, not enough to warrant a nightly post at least. I'm not sure where or how to find balance with our new schedule. I'm thrilled that Doug is home for dinner, bath, and bed for Daniel, but it's a little off having him sit right over there and pay zero attention to me. Maybe I just need a little time to adjust (this is just night #2 after all). Maybe I need another new year's resolution. Maybe. . . hmm. A thought just hit me. Maybe I should set the treadmill up in the garage and start running during study time. Whatever I should do, I wish the idea, motivation, and resources would come to me soon. I'm not falling, but I'm definitely a little wobbly.

Is it time?

Yesterday was Daniel's 18-month milestone. Wow. A year and a half. I didn't spend the day looking back, but instead, looking forward. Doug and I have decided that we'll start trying to make our family of three a family of four as soon as Daniel's second birthday rolls around.

I was sitting on the couch watching the fire and enjoying a cup of hot chocolate. I was thinking about all of the must-dos we had on our list before Daniel was planned/conceived/born. We had to buy a house and make at least one more big trip before conceiving. We had to take a babymoon and walk on the beach in Costa Rica and dream of names for our little peanut. We had to find a crib. We had to take a class. We had to get the nursery ready. We had to have one more big date night before Daniel was born. We had to make some really serious decisions about our life-style and my career options.

The must-do list now? It doesn't exist. I said to Doug, "Wow. We're going to start trying for baby #2 in 6 months. We better hurry up and . . . " I trailed off. Nothing. Hurry up and nothing. Life is exactly as it should be. We're happy. We're healthy. We're whole. Are we ready now? As much as my heart says yes, my head says no. My head says to listen to what it's saying. Let Doug finish school. Let us really be a family of three, seven nights a week, before we have to learn to be a family of four. Let us live. Let us learn. Let us enjoy. Maybe there's nothing tangible on that must-do list, but the next six months shouldn't be one long ellipses. The next six months should be life. To the fullest. With my family.