Future post

I really want to post about language development and my toddler, but time isn't on my side. One day soon - likely next Wednesday - I'm going to tell all kinds of great stories about Daniel, word recognition, and understanding concepts. It sounds all clinical and boring, but I promise it'll garner at least a chuckle or two. Happy Thanksgiving!!!

not much to say

I'm really in the mood to write. It's cathartic for me. It's really a shame I don't have much to say. What to do? Do I just ignore the urge and go read a book? Ramble on about what's happening in my life until something seems noteworthy? Ctrl + a and delete? I don't know. I haven't decided.

I used to think James Joyce was really, really weird. Stream of consciousness just seemed like a pitiful excuse for a writing style. Then I read Araby and I fell in love. I even thought that Araby would be a great name, for a while. Araby Rain, as a matter of fact. Now that I'm an adult (and a mother), I've changed my mind about that. James Joyce is now one of my favorite authors and oddly enough, stream of consciousness sits quite well with me. I guess nights like tonight are exactly why.

I can completely understand the need - or at least the yearning - to write. It's creative, and not just in the "I'd like to pretend I'm eclectic so I claim I can write" sort of way. Creative in the "I'm just stringing together letters, words, and eventually sentences and wow - look at that - they make a story" sort of way. Hence, I created something. I guess if I never come into my muse, if I never come across a story worth telling a thousand times over, I could follow Mr. Joyce's lead and ramble for a while.

I hope that one day my muse does find me. I can picture it. . . sort of. In my head, it's not grandiose. It's not a dream. It's not even a real experience that I can tell a story about. In my head, I'm sitting idle, in between tasks if you will. Let's say at a stop light or perhaps in an airport terminal. As easily as I can lose myself in a novel, I'm lost in my own thoughts. BAM! There it is. The whole story. Characters. Plot. Outline. Irony. Undetermined literary devices. I can really see it happening- snap - just like that. The outline will unfold on the back of a Continental Airlines "what to do if this plane crashes" pamphlet that I will shamelessly steal at the end of the flight. The characters names will be recorded as a note in my cell phone, later to be Googled to make sure they aren't porn stars. The plot? Well. Maybe it will write itself. Maybe it will be in my head, begging to come out. Maybe it will be half written in shorthand on my itinerary, barely legible. But for now, I'll just meander through my own thoughts and be satisfied that I got to write, even if just for a minute or two.

The luck stops here

Doug has what we like to call good-bad luck. The kind of luck where you're unlucky enough to be rear-ended by a drunk driver and have your car shorn in two but lucky enough to walk away with a smidge of whiplash. The kind of luck where bad things happen but no lasting damage occurs. Or at least, the bad thing could have been and probably should have been much, much worse.

Well, Doug brought that good-bad luck into our marriage and sadly, it will probably carry on to the rest of our family. The Careys have had a good run of good-bad luck lately, but I'm going out on a limb and saying that the luck stops here. If it doesn't, God help us! Well, God helps us anyway, but you know what I mean.

To kick off our run, I got a call from our windstorm insurance agent. For those of you who don't live in a wind zone in Texas, it's something you have to have when you live close enough to the coast to be heavily affected by a hurricane or "cyclonic weather event," as they like to call them now. The previous owners of our home had a new roof installed in January = good luck. The previous owners A.) chose a roofer who was not licensed in the state of Texas and B.) did not file the appropriate paperwork with the state to obtain a WPI-8, which you must have to carry your required windstorm insurance = bad luck. At any rate, we had to have an engineer inspect our roof to deem it windstorm worthy. That cost us $250 = bad luck. The repairs to bring us up to code cost us $500 = this one is iffy. Our roofer told us that the engineer could have "called" the whole roof, which would have cost several thousand to replace = good luck. Whew!!

I took my car in last August to have the tires rotated and haven't been back since. I know, I know. Terribly irresponsible of me. A few weeks ago, I loaded Daniel and the stroller into the car, headed to Discount Tire to have the tires rotated, and then walked to Chick-fil-a. I got a call from Sean. Sean said that my front tires were in such bad shape that he wouldn't rotate them = bad luck. Doug and I talked about it and decided that this was definitely a must-have. It just won't do to have mama and baby riding around on bald tires. Sean cut us a decent deal and thankfully, we only needed the two tires = good luck. That would cost us $300 = bad luck. But then we sold our old fridge and an old stroller/car seat combo on craigslist and made $240 = good luck.

Surely you get my point, but here's where the luck stops. The computer. Oh poor, abused computer. It was Doug's Christmas gift 3 years ago. Good machine. Paid a lot for it. Works like a beast. Last Wednesday, it went kaplooie = bad luck. We took it to EPO and had a diagnostic run. EPO man didn't see or hear anything that indicated that the hard drive was shot = good luck. We rebuilt the partition and lost everything = bad luck. It still didn't work = really bad luck. Doug had a flash of brilliance, cleaned the dog hair out of the tower casing, tried again, and it worked = GREAT luck! We almost spent $680 on a new laptop at Best Buy, but Doug didn't give up on the problem and voila! We had a near miss that could have set us back another several hundred dollars.

I'm not sure what lesson God's teaching us with all of this. Obedience? God is my provider? God helps those who help themselves? Luck really isn't luck at all - I know that. It really comes down to blessings and lessons. The blessings, I completely understand, recognize, and appreciate (most of the time, at least). The lessons? Still a little vague. And while I would love to know the subject matter before the lecture, God doesn't work that way and neither does life.

Undeserving

I was having a bad day. Week. I was having a bad week. Daniel's just been. . . not himself. He's been cranky and demanding and moody. I haven't had much of a break. I've run the cleaner seven times this week. Not because my floors are dirty, but because Daniel insists that I run the cleaner every so often. He likes mowers, too, but I'm not about to mow the grass several times a day. No Mother's Day Out compounded with terrible weather and a cranky child has made for a rough week.

Today. . . ugh. Today. Up early. Short nap. Lots of whining. Lots of demands. Three dirty diapers during a two-hour playdate. I was frustrated. I was really looking forward to an early bedtime. I was really, really looking forward to making myself dinner, eating it alone, and enjoying the silence. Daniel had different ideas. Daniel wasn't ready for bed. He threw his puppy and his dragon out of the crib and stood crying at the rail. I was half-tempted to let him cry it out but decided that he'd never get to sleep without Oliver, the dragon, and I drug myself down the hall to go calm him down.

I guess he just wanted to be held. As soon as I picked him up, he was fine. I decided to rock him for a bit, just because I felt like he needed it. Little did I know, I was the one who needed it. Here I am - frustrated, tired, ready for some alone time - and I'm rocking my baby. I'm praying for patience. Praying for God to take away my frustrations. Praying for strength and for my own peace. About the time I stopped feeling sorry for myself, Daniel wrapped his hands around my wrist and pressed the palm of my hand against his chest. He squeezed me; hard enough to really hold me but gentle enough to still be sweet. I cried. My heart swelled up to three times its normal size, my eyes stung, my conscience reeled, and I cried. I rested my cheek against his head and tried not to get any tears on him. I stopped asking God for mercy and started thanking him for everything I could name.

I guess in the midst of a rough week, I lost sight of how blessed - truly blessed - I really am. Whatever I did to deserve my station in life, it wasn't enough. I can't recall having ever done anything to deserve such a wonderful, fulfilling existence. Whatever it was, I'm grateful for it. I certainly don't deserve it, but I sure do appreciate it.

What's in a name?

What is in a name? A lot, apparently. I was thinking about names today, because I was thinking about babies. Not because I'm pregnant - or even trying to get that way - but I'm always thinking about babies. I think I drive Doug nuts with that, but that's another blog for another day. Anywho, I was thinking about names that would sound good with Daniel. When you have a second child (or third, fourth, or fifth child), you can't just worry about how his or her name sounds by itself. You have to worry about how your family's names sound spoken together. When I was pregnant, I yelled Daniel's full name a few times, just to make sure it was one of those attention-getting names. When we have a second one, I'll have to yell their names together. "Daniel and ___! Get down here this minute!" It won't do for me to get tongue-tied while trying to chastise my children. And no, I'm not only concerned with how their names will sound when I'm yelling. Merry Christmas! Love, the Careys - Doug, Sheri, Daniel, and _____. This _____ is important.

Ironically enough, almost every name we had on our previous list of names has been "taken" by one of Daniel's little buddies. Caleb was the last name we struck from the list when we finally decided on Daniel. Just before that, it was Will. Caleb and Will just happen to be two of Daniel's really good friends. Not that we can't have a Caleb or Will of our very own, it would just be confusing. So how about Jacob? Ethan? David? Huh. Scratch David. We'd have way too many D Careys running around. See what I mean? But I digress.

When I was thinking about names, I was thinking about how glad I was to be Mrs. Sheri Carey. Oh of course most of that has to do with how much I love my husband, what a wonderful man and father he is, and how happy I am to be with him. But wow. I started thinking about all of the other Sheri _____s I could have been. Good thing I married Doug. Sheri Young? That sounds terrible. Sheri Lopez - I had already endured months and months of She-Lo jokes as it was. I may have shot myself before that one was over. Sheri Chappa? That's just wrong. Sheri Rodriguez? I can't even spell Rodriguez.

So what is in a name? Letters. Sounds. Syllables. And lots and lots of hard work, if your mother was crazy, as I happen to be. If your mother was diligent enough to Google your name to make sure you weren't destined to be a porn star or a semi-famous criminal, made sure your initials didn't spell anything weird and weren't taken by an oil and gas company, and worked really hard to make sure your name just rolled off the tongue, there's a lot of thought and effort in your name. My name? It's just hilarious. Laugh all ya want - I love it.

Reminders

Isn't it strange how certain things can take you to a specific place and time? Certain songs or smells or tastes or maybe just a phrase uttered in just such a way? I opened a new bottle of bath gel today and was instantly transported to the Bath and Body Works at Baybrook Mall circa 1992. Back in those days, the mall was what you did on a Friday night. You piled into Cheri Bouldin's minivan, sang Meatloaf at the top of your lungs on the 5-minute ride to the mall, and then meandered around in circles until the van pulled up outside the door by Cinnabon to pick you up. See what I mean? One whiff of bath gel and BAM! I was 13 years old, all over again.

I remember one particular Friday, we decided to see how many store managers would ask us to leave. We didn't do anything destructive; we just acted like idiots, talked loudly, and said inappropriate things. I don't remember how many times we were "kicked out," but I do remember about 6 of us getting "stuck" in the tube in the children's section at a book store. By "stuck," I mean that 6 teenagers piled into the tube and then got the giggles and couldn't stop giggling long enough to pry ourselves out. All of this from bath gel. . .

Other reminders are a little more vague. Like dry pine needles, patchouli oil, and turkey legs. Three guesses and the first two don't count. Give up? Ren Fest. Nothing special about it, just Ren Fest. The first real cold front of the fall leaves me on the front porch of my apartment in college, hands shoved in my hoodie, cigarette hanging from my lips, mind wandering someplace likely dangerous. The feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you've run too hard for too long? That's a good one. I'm on a random country road in Seguin, sweat pouring in my eyes, ringing in my ears, thoughts of strangling a certain softball coach running through my mind. It was the first day of off-season my Freshman year. I will not soon forget.

Other reminders are so ambiguous they're hard to pinpoint. I think that's because they're more emotional than temporal. For instance, the smell of Daniel's hair after a bath. My heart swells with love and pride and a whole concoction of emotions that I haven't even named. My mind races through the last 15 months with a pace so swift that I can't even single out any of the stops along the way.

Memories are truly amazing. When I'm old, withered, and gray, I won't look back on life and remember how much I had in my bank account on any given day. I won't have a clue what I had for dinner two days before. I probably won't even be able to tell you that Doug only eats strawberry preserves on his PB&J sandwiches. But God willing, I'll take a deep breath, catch a whiff of a clean baby, and I'll be young. I'll be 30, sitting in my living room with my baby on my lap. I'll be reading him a book, probably about dragons. I'll kiss his hair, take a deep breath, and know that life never did get any better.

Pedis, sushi, and martinis - oh my!

This weekend, Summer helped me celebrate my birthday. Again. What I really wanted from Doug was a pedicure. I've been trying to arrange a pedi/sushi playdate for weeks now. It just so happened that Summer and I were able to convince our better halves to take our little ones for a couple of hours so that we could have some mommy time and it just so happened to be one week after the big three-oh. Perfect timing.

One would think I would take care of mommy time during Mother's Day Out (MDO). Haha. Hoho. Heehee. . . MDO isn't about mommy AT ALL. MDO is about Daniel learning to be with other kids and about mommy cleaning houses to earn enough money to make sure Daniel is able to learn to be with other kids. Point being, mommy time? It's never been this glamorous. In fact, the last mommy time I had was in May. Doug "watched" Daniel so I could go for my Mother's Day pedi. By "watched," I mean he read a book at the beach house while Daniel napped. The entire time I was gone. What a crock. All of this to illustrate just how precious (and rare) mommy time really is.

Our men - God bless them - took our boys to the zoo. Not only did that account for 4 hours of mommy time, it also provided a 3-hour nap. And because they were on a man-date themselves (insert polite laughter here), Summer and I were actually able to relax, take our time, and not maniacally rush to get back home to our respective children.

My, she was my pedicurist, was niiiiice. Not because My did a better job than other pedicurists I've had, but because she had ADD. She got stuck watching some Lifetime movie during the massage part of my pedi. Talk about perfect timing. My brought me a glass of chilled red wine, didn't bother me at all, and didn't spend half of my pedicure jabbering to her fellow pedicurists in a language I don't understand. I think I'll ask for My next time, provided Lifetime is showing something worth watching.

After our oh-so-relaxing pedis, Summer and I sauntered down to Masa Sushi. I use saunter literally. We were pretty relaxed. Summer - God bless her - bought me a Blue Lilac martini for my birthday. Word. And yum. If I ever make it back to Masa Sushi, thank you sir - I'll have another. After an hour plus of sipping martinis, eating sushi, and talking about nothing important at all, our men called en route with sleeping babies.

If my day sounds delightful, it was. If it sounds like the rest of my life pales in comparison, it doesn't. Days like this, though they may be very few and very far between (if ever repeated), make me a better mother, wife, and daughter. They force me to slow down, relax (not one of my strong suits), and focus on enjoying the finer points of life. They remind me just how much I cherish every moment with Daniel, especially the moments when he winds up with cheesy scrambled eggs stuck to the bottom of his foot, dragging himself around the kitchen, trying desperately to find a position that will allow him to feed the dog the eggs and the cheese. Days like this are something to look forward to and something to look back on, but certainly nothing to live for. Cheesy eggs and bare feet? That's something worth remembering.