I can tell that I'm an official adult now because Thanksgiving, Fourth of July and New Years are my favorite holidays. Before my teen years, the favorites were Christmas and birthday, in that order.
I love New Years because, well, everything feels new and uncluttered. It's like the entire country gets a second chance at following their dreams, mending relationships, making good on a promise to themself.
I was grateful for a year that was a little more gentle than previous years.
Thankful for caring family.
Thankful for amazing friends who show their strength in the midst of unbearable marriages, seemingly fruitless efforts, repetitive service and quieting that voice that says, "Am I enough?"
I have discovered that my daughters have made me a different woman. I enjoy simpler things now. I enjoy playing chase and smooching the top of their heads. I love how Morgan's laugh sounds like watery, giggly music. I love how Eve dives into life with the tenacity of a pitbull.
I'm grateful that I'm learning to appreciate how God made me and all my idiosyncrasies. I'm learning to not compare myself to others. I'm learning to focus, to make dreams happen.
I've come to realize that one of my favorite things to do is to do something-- anything-- well. Making dinner. Making a bed. Creating an image. The satisfaction of stepping back from something for an instant and, in God-like fashion, saying "That's good. Make more of that."
I've discovered that I'd rather prune activities from my life than rush around like a mad woman, half seeing the world around me.
In the friendships in my life, I'm accepting of people who aren't yet ready to tell me that they've moved on in life, that they don't see life at all the way I do. I have some friends who are too scared to come out of a cave of their life so I'll just metaphorically leave cookies at their doorstep in the hopes that one day they will.
I have other friends who are seizing the good things in life so fiercely because a tsunami of bad tidings came their way. I admire their ability to create, to push forward, to leave the darkness behind.
My husband and I were talking this morning about how when we were first married we wanted such surface-y things: Without saying so, I'm sure we wanted to be as rich, beautiful and healthy as possible. In the past ten years in Chicagoland, we've changed. We see how God directs our paths through friends and finances, sickness and sorrows. We're planning things less lately and giving God our hearts and motives. Dan and I both have artistic endeavors we'd like to pursue; we find ourselves being mindful of God's voice in that.
And now, A New Year's Blessing for you:
May your sorrows drive you to beauty.
May your joys etch out all pain.
May your days be quiet enough to hear the voice of God,
boisterous enough to hear life pulsing around you
and simple enough to enjoy them all thoroughly.
Happy New Year
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
To My Younger Self: On Relationships
My husband is a firm believer in not having regrets. It's not that he doesn't have circumstances in his life that he wish weren't so; it's more like he sees each life experience as a learning experience given from God.
He's the optimist in the family.
He doesn't even regret certain toxic people in his life; he has amazing emotional stamina.
I do not share his sentiment or his stamina. If given the opportunity, I would have erased most of my junior high years, increased the amount of time I spent with my great grandmother and said "yes" when Dan Dykstra asked me out for pizza at college.
I regret that last one immensely.
That being said, I have come up with a short list of relationship pointers for myself in the event that time travel is a viable option and I accidentally set the machine for "pre-adolescent years".
*ahem*
1. Surround yourself with people who want to bring out the best in you.
2. Do not make yourself close friends with people who like to be victims in life.
3. People who like to laugh make great friends.
4. You're a "word" person. Make friends with people who use their words for good.
5. If someone is constantly making small jabs at you, excuse yourself politely from the friendship. Even small jabs mean something bigger is lurking.
6. Be the kind of woman that you want to be now, when you're a mother and especially when you're a grandmother. Practice makes perfect.
7. Stay away from people who try to manipulate spiritually, emotionally or any other way.
8. Make guy friends; they're great.
9. Just because a person looks plain on the outside doesn't mean that they're plain on the inside.
10. A person's eyes say a lot about their heart.
He's the optimist in the family.
He doesn't even regret certain toxic people in his life; he has amazing emotional stamina.
I do not share his sentiment or his stamina. If given the opportunity, I would have erased most of my junior high years, increased the amount of time I spent with my great grandmother and said "yes" when Dan Dykstra asked me out for pizza at college.
I regret that last one immensely.
That being said, I have come up with a short list of relationship pointers for myself in the event that time travel is a viable option and I accidentally set the machine for "pre-adolescent years".
*ahem*
1. Surround yourself with people who want to bring out the best in you.
2. Do not make yourself close friends with people who like to be victims in life.
3. People who like to laugh make great friends.
4. You're a "word" person. Make friends with people who use their words for good.
5. If someone is constantly making small jabs at you, excuse yourself politely from the friendship. Even small jabs mean something bigger is lurking.
6. Be the kind of woman that you want to be now, when you're a mother and especially when you're a grandmother. Practice makes perfect.
7. Stay away from people who try to manipulate spiritually, emotionally or any other way.
8. Make guy friends; they're great.
9. Just because a person looks plain on the outside doesn't mean that they're plain on the inside.
10. A person's eyes say a lot about their heart.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Target Practice
Each morning when I awake, a swarm of thoughts awaits me.
The thoughts come in truck loads full.
The thoughts are about doctor visits and decorating ideas.
They continue with joy or concern for my friends.
Sometimes they contain leftovers of difficulties from the day before.
They threaten to undo me.
It's a marvelous morning cocktail of cares.
Each of these concerns is probably valid and important. They can't be dismissed as evidenced by the way they weave their way into my day. They must be addressed. And they will be. Just as soon as I file them and let them know my priorities.
This morning when I awoke, the thoughts threatened to bombard me. They do that on Monday mornings, especially on Monday mornings that follow a 5 day Thanksgiving weekend in which other people help feed my children and clothe them and give them raspberry kisses. On those Mondays I feel very alone.
So this morning I started my thoughts with target practice. My target this day, if I'm living the way God wants me to, is to love. That's my target: love.
If I don't see love as my target, then making the 12 millionth peanut butter and jelly sandwich becomes a task suitable for robots. It leads to numbness of heart and mind.
My washer did something funny this morning. It wasn't "haha" funny, more like *groan, rolling eyes* funny. I felt the day trying to unravel me so I told Dan over coffee. In his true "forest for the trees" way of thinking he reminded me that we're commanded by God not to worry. Forbidden.
Not allowed.
Ain't in our vocabulary.
Zing. There went the arrow straight to the target.
Some contractors came at 8am and let me know something was wrong with the dryer. I filed that under my "no worries" folder and continued to plunge in my morning routine.
Another arrow flew. Bulls eye.
Later this morning I'll go grocery shopping. The goal on that trip will be to get groceries, but as any mother of young ones knows, there are ample opportunities to show love to your children in grocery store settings.
Like when they sit on a pile of paper towel rolls to see if it will hold their weight.
Or climb the shelves.
Or when they announce their dislike for their seated situation.
Or would like very much to put every item in your cart on the conveyor belt by themselves complete with the phrase, "I do it."
There's acres of opportunities for target practice there.
I can't say I'll hit the target all the time, but if I shoot my arrow in the general direction and arm myself with prayer, coffee and some practice, I might just make it.
Zing.
The thoughts come in truck loads full.
The thoughts are about doctor visits and decorating ideas.
They continue with joy or concern for my friends.
Sometimes they contain leftovers of difficulties from the day before.
They threaten to undo me.
It's a marvelous morning cocktail of cares.
Each of these concerns is probably valid and important. They can't be dismissed as evidenced by the way they weave their way into my day. They must be addressed. And they will be. Just as soon as I file them and let them know my priorities.
This morning when I awoke, the thoughts threatened to bombard me. They do that on Monday mornings, especially on Monday mornings that follow a 5 day Thanksgiving weekend in which other people help feed my children and clothe them and give them raspberry kisses. On those Mondays I feel very alone.
So this morning I started my thoughts with target practice. My target this day, if I'm living the way God wants me to, is to love. That's my target: love.
If I don't see love as my target, then making the 12 millionth peanut butter and jelly sandwich becomes a task suitable for robots. It leads to numbness of heart and mind.
My washer did something funny this morning. It wasn't "haha" funny, more like *groan, rolling eyes* funny. I felt the day trying to unravel me so I told Dan over coffee. In his true "forest for the trees" way of thinking he reminded me that we're commanded by God not to worry. Forbidden.
Not allowed.
Ain't in our vocabulary.
Zing. There went the arrow straight to the target.
Some contractors came at 8am and let me know something was wrong with the dryer. I filed that under my "no worries" folder and continued to plunge in my morning routine.
Another arrow flew. Bulls eye.
Later this morning I'll go grocery shopping. The goal on that trip will be to get groceries, but as any mother of young ones knows, there are ample opportunities to show love to your children in grocery store settings.
Like when they sit on a pile of paper towel rolls to see if it will hold their weight.
Or climb the shelves.
Or when they announce their dislike for their seated situation.
Or would like very much to put every item in your cart on the conveyor belt by themselves complete with the phrase, "I do it."
There's acres of opportunities for target practice there.
I can't say I'll hit the target all the time, but if I shoot my arrow in the general direction and arm myself with prayer, coffee and some practice, I might just make it.
Zing.
Friday, November 18, 2011
I Have A Rolodex
My name is Emily and I have a Rolodex.
If that causes you to conjure images of an insanely expensive watch worn by celebrities, then you'll be disappointed when I tell you that you are thinking of a Rolex. I'm talking about a rotary file, an office accessory.
I have a Rolodex.
My Rolodex is one of the deluxe models. I got it for free because --flipping my hair for effect-- I used to design for a company called Sanford and helped design on the Rolodex team. I'm sure I just went up a notch in your estimation. Autographs later, please.
In any case, my deluxe Rolodex has the wheels on the side for whirling about my world of contact information. With a flip of my wrist, I can summon specialists, recall my library information and call my favorite flooring company. The cards flip magically around the rotary file as I watch the alphabet pass by dizzily. I can see the entire alphabet is 3 seconds flat. It's fun AND functional. It's FUNctional. (Oh c'mon... laugh.)
I'm not the only one who thinks the Rolodex is fun. My preschool daughter is quite taken with it. In a manner of minutes she discovered most of the features of the Rolodex.
She likes how the cards flip around and around, piling on top of each other. She delights in taking out the special Rolodex punched cards and shoving them into new parts of the alphabet or, more creatively, jamming them in the back of the file. In a final climax of creativity, a family of glitter stickers has appeared now and again in various parts of the Rolodex alphabet. I find myself smiling while I see a happy bear sticker appear in the "R" section and groaning as I realize that the "G" section has disappeared altogether.
My Rolodex is a micro example of what my home is like.
To keep things orderly, I have managed to acquire vast amounts of plastic tubs and all manner of organizing paraphernalia. I close my eyes when the Container Store catalog comes in the mail because, quite honestly, I'm afraid I'll become OCD and start organizing on a sub particle level. Organizing makes me feel like I have control over some part of my world. It's false security but I treasure it just the same.
Enter young children.
My children do not share my admiration of orderliness. In fact, I have been doing an unofficial study and I can tell you that children are 99% more likely to play with toys if they are put away in bins. If toys are strewn upon a floor, children are less likely to be interested in them. Moth, meet flame. The children prefer the toys that are put away so that they can "un-put" them away. The irony.
But as I reflect on my home/Rolodex parallel, I realize that without my little muffins running around wrecklessly in their galoshes and my high heels, I wouldn't have the bling, the glitter stickers.
I wouldn't have the fierce squeezes known as hugs.
I wouldn't have the compliments. "I wike your neckwace."
I wouldn't have that extra something that makes me see the world 100% differently than I did 8 years ago, pre-children.
My 8 year old daughter will take a pack of markers and attack a white sheet of paper with great confidence. She will turn a blank canvas into art in 5 minutes flat and hang it on our art board. She inspires me to stop fretting, love life and just DIG IN! (As an aside, when I'm working on a design for something and get hung up on a part of it, I'll ask Morgan what she would do. Her ideas are always fresher.)
Eve will be 3 in one month. She belts out songs unabashedly. Sometimes when we're home along I'll sing a silly opera version of her Veggie Tales song and we'll dance. We hold hands and say "Shimmy, shimmy" as we push and pull each other's arms. She's pure life.
Some days I don't have this perspective. On those dark days I feel frustrated and want to scrap the whole thing. Nothing ever really feels done but then when I worked in the corporate world nothing ever really felt done there either. (Am I right?)
On those days, I take a deep breath, return the "G" to my Rolodex file and replace the jammed cards. With a new perspective I realize that I don't need a new Rolodex; I need more glitter stickers.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
MOPS
On the ala carte menu of motherhood, I distinctly remember ordering a cute, energetic and sweet offspring. I knew they would still fall in the "sinner" category and that my life would be altered irrevocably forever after, but the cuteness of the child would help me see beyond life's bumps.
When I discovered that some bumps in life almost become debilitating, I can't tell you how much I appreciate being a part of MOPS. (Mothers Of PreSchoolers.)
I am in a MOPS group right now that is rich with amazing moms, women who are in the trenches of motherhood. These are women who put on a happy face for their 2 year old even though they are going through deep waters of life: cancer, joblessness, marital trouble, financial woes. These women stand up every Monday morning, put on their "work boots" and continue to nurture, pray, have faith in God's provision, hope.
These are the women who spurn everything that would erase the strong spirit God has placed in them and remind themselves that they are made in God's image, loved by God.
In hospital rooms they don't want to be in, they are reminded that God is there.
In marriages where tenderness is threadbare, they lock their identity in God.
When they look down at their boots and wish they could have a new pair for winter, they look expectantly to God.
I am so blessed to be part of this group. I initially came to MOPS for the crafts, the food and the free childcare. (Hey, you would too if you saw the amazing dishes these ladies bring!) But now I come for other reasons. I come to be in the fellowship of their honesty, to laugh at their joys in the life, to ache for their frustrations.
I come because I don't have the answers to all of the curve balls of motherhood. Somehow, by linking arms with other women who love their kids, who look to God, I am strengthened.
In our MOPS group, we have this amazing swap table. You bring things you don't want anymore... like clothing your child has outgrown... and you take whatever you want. You don't have to bring anything in order to take anything from the MOPS table. It's complete grace. I can't tell you how many times I have needed something for my children and *voila* right there on the swap table is... a new pair of size 10 winter boots for girls... a toy that my daughter would love... an adorable shirt. It saves me a shopping trip; so thankful.
The giving is just as fun. When my daughter Eve has outgrown her clothing, I love to see people take a bag home of her clothes. It gives me such joy to know they are going to be useful once more.
This Friday is our next MOPS meeting. We're slotted to hear a speaker on the topic of humor in motherhood. A throng of week-weary women will come to hear this speaker. The women will come quietly into our meeting room, cradle their hot coffee and sit down. They'll ask each other about their week. They'll nosh on some lovely egg casserole. And then, as the room warms up, and their minds unwind, they'll share their hearts.
I, for one, can't wait.
When I discovered that some bumps in life almost become debilitating, I can't tell you how much I appreciate being a part of MOPS. (Mothers Of PreSchoolers.)
I am in a MOPS group right now that is rich with amazing moms, women who are in the trenches of motherhood. These are women who put on a happy face for their 2 year old even though they are going through deep waters of life: cancer, joblessness, marital trouble, financial woes. These women stand up every Monday morning, put on their "work boots" and continue to nurture, pray, have faith in God's provision, hope.
These are the women who spurn everything that would erase the strong spirit God has placed in them and remind themselves that they are made in God's image, loved by God.
In hospital rooms they don't want to be in, they are reminded that God is there.
In marriages where tenderness is threadbare, they lock their identity in God.
When they look down at their boots and wish they could have a new pair for winter, they look expectantly to God.
I am so blessed to be part of this group. I initially came to MOPS for the crafts, the food and the free childcare. (Hey, you would too if you saw the amazing dishes these ladies bring!) But now I come for other reasons. I come to be in the fellowship of their honesty, to laugh at their joys in the life, to ache for their frustrations.
I come because I don't have the answers to all of the curve balls of motherhood. Somehow, by linking arms with other women who love their kids, who look to God, I am strengthened.
In our MOPS group, we have this amazing swap table. You bring things you don't want anymore... like clothing your child has outgrown... and you take whatever you want. You don't have to bring anything in order to take anything from the MOPS table. It's complete grace. I can't tell you how many times I have needed something for my children and *voila* right there on the swap table is... a new pair of size 10 winter boots for girls... a toy that my daughter would love... an adorable shirt. It saves me a shopping trip; so thankful.
The giving is just as fun. When my daughter Eve has outgrown her clothing, I love to see people take a bag home of her clothes. It gives me such joy to know they are going to be useful once more.
This Friday is our next MOPS meeting. We're slotted to hear a speaker on the topic of humor in motherhood. A throng of week-weary women will come to hear this speaker. The women will come quietly into our meeting room, cradle their hot coffee and sit down. They'll ask each other about their week. They'll nosh on some lovely egg casserole. And then, as the room warms up, and their minds unwind, they'll share their hearts.
I, for one, can't wait.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Marathon, Baby!
I need to rest. Desperately. Not just physical 10-hours-a-night rest. I'm talking unplug the brain and let wisps of wind run through my hair rest. I'd settle for a twenty minute bath. Alone. With no one talking to me. I did too much and it's all my fault. Ugh.
Motherhood is a marathon. It's a long haul. Some parents take it like a sprint and that's where they get into trouble. I know because that's how I started. I reveled in those books about how to keep toddlers busy and how to cook with your child and how to enjoy every living moment with your offspring by your side.
Now that I'm older, tireder and more "get to the point-er", I have developed my own philosophies on raising children. If you don't agree with me, well, then you can't be my friend anymore. Until tomorrow.
Behold my Manifesto:
Firstly, I find that children need a balance of time spent playing with others and playing by themselves.
If a child spends too much time being told how to play, it will render them useless when they get to college and need to write a dissertation on something important, like hair follicle stimulation or how to get Playdoh out of carpet. Children need to learn to use those dark recesses of the brain now that will ignite the creativity they need to even ask those questions in the first place. I can tell an "overly calendared" child from a mile away. Their attention span comes in neat 10 minute increments and they have songs for every transition in life.
That being said, I currently have a child upstairs who is *supposed* to be having a quiet time and it is a far cry from anything quiet up there. She wants to interact; once I get my senses about me, I will let her interact with me and let her roam like the free range child that she is.
As an aside: I find that God likes to give children in batches of "opposites": One very social child will follow a very introverted child in birth order. He does this to keep our minds sharp and flexible. And perhaps to get a laugh.
Secondly, a mother who makes motherhood her entire world will find that her world is portable and will leave her one day.
This is not a case for being a stay at home mother or for being a work away from home one. This is a case for showing your children that, while they are endlessly entertaining, there is a world vast and amazing that goes beyond their gorgeous, pleading doe-eyes. I am the worst offender at this because I yo-yo between showing my children perpetual attention and then have a slight of tongue in which I accidentally tell my 2 year old to "go away" and that's the ONLY thing she remembers I ever taught her. *sweet mercy*
Plus, I feel that children whose parents hover too much feel insecure. Yes?
I recommend that parents should read books, learn about opera or try a new workout to broaden their horizons. I don't do any of these things, but I thought you should have somewhere to start. None of these rules apply to me.
Rest, for heavens sake. Rest.
I have a friend who joked constantly about stay at home mothers watching Oprah and, truth be told, I can't say that I ever have time for television. First, I don't particularly like television but more importantly, television causes my children to rise up and called me unblessed things. Like "mean". Plus-- let's be honest-- all of Paula Deen's recipes are the same: Start and end with butter.
There was one day last year when I forsook a nap and watched an amazing hour long Masterpiece Theater show. Afterward I felt amazing. I was smiling. My mind was stimulated. I felt rested and strong and had energy. Energy! It's like crack for mothers!
It was such an amazing day that I *still* remember it fondly and hope to do it again in a year.
Allow margin.
I cannot take credit for this. This is purely from my sister Noel who, at one point, had 4 children 4 years old and under. She still has the four children but now they are maturely at ages 8, 5, 3 and 3. (Yes, twins.) As you can see, she has all the time in the world.
My sister has always told people that one of her secrets for keeping her head screwed on correctly is to allow for margin. When she decorates for Christmas, she gives herself one hour to do so and then puts the rest of the boxes away. She naps almost every day. In the event that her children disagree with her assessment to nap, she has ear plugs so she can continue her part.
She allows for margin in her budget, her time and her energy. She is the ultimate in "cool headed momma" and when you meet her one day you will instantly like her and dislike her at the same time. But the former feeling will prevail. I promise.
It's all about love.
Can someone please tattoo this on my forehead?
Say "no" to others more than your family.
I find that I have 50% less friends because of this philosophy and I'm not hating it.
The other way to say it is "Find ways to say 'yes' to your children." I'm naturally a "no-no" momma, but I'm learning to say "yes, have a morning cookie" once in a while, just to keep them guessing. That being said, a good old-fashioned "no" is sometimes in order and perfectly fine, too.
________________________________________
So there you have it: Thoughts on motherhood from a woman who doesn't do half of it well, but chooses to see the glass as half full.
Of coffee.
Motherhood is a marathon. It's a long haul. Some parents take it like a sprint and that's where they get into trouble. I know because that's how I started. I reveled in those books about how to keep toddlers busy and how to cook with your child and how to enjoy every living moment with your offspring by your side.
Now that I'm older, tireder and more "get to the point-er", I have developed my own philosophies on raising children. If you don't agree with me, well, then you can't be my friend anymore. Until tomorrow.
Behold my Manifesto:
Firstly, I find that children need a balance of time spent playing with others and playing by themselves.
If a child spends too much time being told how to play, it will render them useless when they get to college and need to write a dissertation on something important, like hair follicle stimulation or how to get Playdoh out of carpet. Children need to learn to use those dark recesses of the brain now that will ignite the creativity they need to even ask those questions in the first place. I can tell an "overly calendared" child from a mile away. Their attention span comes in neat 10 minute increments and they have songs for every transition in life.
That being said, I currently have a child upstairs who is *supposed* to be having a quiet time and it is a far cry from anything quiet up there. She wants to interact; once I get my senses about me, I will let her interact with me and let her roam like the free range child that she is.
As an aside: I find that God likes to give children in batches of "opposites": One very social child will follow a very introverted child in birth order. He does this to keep our minds sharp and flexible. And perhaps to get a laugh.
Secondly, a mother who makes motherhood her entire world will find that her world is portable and will leave her one day.
This is not a case for being a stay at home mother or for being a work away from home one. This is a case for showing your children that, while they are endlessly entertaining, there is a world vast and amazing that goes beyond their gorgeous, pleading doe-eyes. I am the worst offender at this because I yo-yo between showing my children perpetual attention and then have a slight of tongue in which I accidentally tell my 2 year old to "go away" and that's the ONLY thing she remembers I ever taught her. *sweet mercy*
Plus, I feel that children whose parents hover too much feel insecure. Yes?
I recommend that parents should read books, learn about opera or try a new workout to broaden their horizons. I don't do any of these things, but I thought you should have somewhere to start. None of these rules apply to me.
Rest, for heavens sake. Rest.
I have a friend who joked constantly about stay at home mothers watching Oprah and, truth be told, I can't say that I ever have time for television. First, I don't particularly like television but more importantly, television causes my children to rise up and called me unblessed things. Like "mean". Plus-- let's be honest-- all of Paula Deen's recipes are the same: Start and end with butter.
There was one day last year when I forsook a nap and watched an amazing hour long Masterpiece Theater show. Afterward I felt amazing. I was smiling. My mind was stimulated. I felt rested and strong and had energy. Energy! It's like crack for mothers!
It was such an amazing day that I *still* remember it fondly and hope to do it again in a year.
Allow margin.
I cannot take credit for this. This is purely from my sister Noel who, at one point, had 4 children 4 years old and under. She still has the four children but now they are maturely at ages 8, 5, 3 and 3. (Yes, twins.) As you can see, she has all the time in the world.
My sister has always told people that one of her secrets for keeping her head screwed on correctly is to allow for margin. When she decorates for Christmas, she gives herself one hour to do so and then puts the rest of the boxes away. She naps almost every day. In the event that her children disagree with her assessment to nap, she has ear plugs so she can continue her part.
She allows for margin in her budget, her time and her energy. She is the ultimate in "cool headed momma" and when you meet her one day you will instantly like her and dislike her at the same time. But the former feeling will prevail. I promise.
It's all about love.
Can someone please tattoo this on my forehead?
Say "no" to others more than your family.
I find that I have 50% less friends because of this philosophy and I'm not hating it.
The other way to say it is "Find ways to say 'yes' to your children." I'm naturally a "no-no" momma, but I'm learning to say "yes, have a morning cookie" once in a while, just to keep them guessing. That being said, a good old-fashioned "no" is sometimes in order and perfectly fine, too.
________________________________________
So there you have it: Thoughts on motherhood from a woman who doesn't do half of it well, but chooses to see the glass as half full.
Of coffee.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Safe Place
About 4 years ago when my husband and I moved to Aurora, we learned that despite our best efforts, unpacking was a relative term. We're still finding things to unpack or put on the walls. We plead "children".
On stock photography sites, if you look up the words "moving day", they'll show images of a young married couple moving to their first house. The couple will look happy, they'll be surrounded by corrugated boxes that will be labeled "living room" and they'll be sitting on a gleaming hardwood floor eating Chinese food. To me this is Moving Day pornography; it doesn't exist and should not be viewed at all. It's all a tease.
For us, unpacking from moving day was so ugly that we'll probably never move from this house, even if we have octuplets and need 7 extra bedrooms; we'll stay. The most memorable of unpacking boxes was the box which I tattooed "UNPACK THIS FIRST" with great big Sharpie letters. It contained toiletries for our first day of life in Aurora, including towels and some other essentials.
Upon arriving we learned very quickly that the "UNPACK THIS FIRST" box was already settling in nicely somewhere in the three levels of our house. Where it was was anyone's guess.
We took our first showers and used paper towels to dry off. If you can imagine what it's like to shower and then engage an entire roll of Bounty to absorb the effects, you'll question whether it's truly the "quicker picker upper". I was really ticked because it was the "one thing" that I remember doing right in our move. "If all else fails, at least we'll have that first box," I comforted myself.
In retrospect it was humorous and somewhat embarrassing; we never talk about it. It's like one of those occasions where you say, "Remember when..." and then the other person knows instantly what you're talking about and says, "Yeah" so quickly that you know they don't want to remember any of it. It's like that. Exactly.
In the weeks that followed, whenever my husband asked where something was I said, "I don't know where it is, but I know it's somewhere safe." I must have said that 324,765 times because to this day I continue to say it to myself. Plus, studies show that if you repeat something 324,765 times, it becomes habit.
"Where is my toothpaste," I queried upon opening my empty bath drawer. "Wherever it is, it's somewhere safe." And sure enough... there it was... picked up and given a new home by one of my helpers.
"Where is all my gum?"
"Where is my hairbrush?"
"Why can't I find my other shoe?"
"Has anyone seen my sunglasses? My cell phone?"
Safe place, safe place, safe place.
I worry 80% less now that I'm a mother because I know that if I pretend I don't really want to find the item that is lost, it will start to feel badly and resurface momentarily.
This morning I placed two clear rubber hair ties on the kitchen table in order to put pigtails in Eve's hair. Within seconds they vanished. I learned that Eve placed both holders in her cereal bowl and they were receiving a milk bath. See? Safe place.
My headbands are gone and a really cute second grader has surfaced wearing one of them.
Safe place.
My coffee mug has been missing since a very handsome man has deemed it worthy of his attention. Safe place again.
What's more, with so much sharing, things collect very little dust in our house. It's win-win.
So come on over. Bring your children, your pets, your in-laws. We're not sure what you came with, but we're sure that whatever you leave with will be relatively close to the same number you arrived with.
And if you leave things here, rest assured: They're safe.
On stock photography sites, if you look up the words "moving day", they'll show images of a young married couple moving to their first house. The couple will look happy, they'll be surrounded by corrugated boxes that will be labeled "living room" and they'll be sitting on a gleaming hardwood floor eating Chinese food. To me this is Moving Day pornography; it doesn't exist and should not be viewed at all. It's all a tease.
For us, unpacking from moving day was so ugly that we'll probably never move from this house, even if we have octuplets and need 7 extra bedrooms; we'll stay. The most memorable of unpacking boxes was the box which I tattooed "UNPACK THIS FIRST" with great big Sharpie letters. It contained toiletries for our first day of life in Aurora, including towels and some other essentials.
Upon arriving we learned very quickly that the "UNPACK THIS FIRST" box was already settling in nicely somewhere in the three levels of our house. Where it was was anyone's guess.
We took our first showers and used paper towels to dry off. If you can imagine what it's like to shower and then engage an entire roll of Bounty to absorb the effects, you'll question whether it's truly the "quicker picker upper". I was really ticked because it was the "one thing" that I remember doing right in our move. "If all else fails, at least we'll have that first box," I comforted myself.
In retrospect it was humorous and somewhat embarrassing; we never talk about it. It's like one of those occasions where you say, "Remember when..." and then the other person knows instantly what you're talking about and says, "Yeah" so quickly that you know they don't want to remember any of it. It's like that. Exactly.
In the weeks that followed, whenever my husband asked where something was I said, "I don't know where it is, but I know it's somewhere safe." I must have said that 324,765 times because to this day I continue to say it to myself. Plus, studies show that if you repeat something 324,765 times, it becomes habit.
"Where is my toothpaste," I queried upon opening my empty bath drawer. "Wherever it is, it's somewhere safe." And sure enough... there it was... picked up and given a new home by one of my helpers.
"Where is all my gum?"
"Where is my hairbrush?"
"Why can't I find my other shoe?"
"Has anyone seen my sunglasses? My cell phone?"
Safe place, safe place, safe place.
I worry 80% less now that I'm a mother because I know that if I pretend I don't really want to find the item that is lost, it will start to feel badly and resurface momentarily.
This morning I placed two clear rubber hair ties on the kitchen table in order to put pigtails in Eve's hair. Within seconds they vanished. I learned that Eve placed both holders in her cereal bowl and they were receiving a milk bath. See? Safe place.
My headbands are gone and a really cute second grader has surfaced wearing one of them.
Safe place.
My coffee mug has been missing since a very handsome man has deemed it worthy of his attention. Safe place again.
What's more, with so much sharing, things collect very little dust in our house. It's win-win.
So come on over. Bring your children, your pets, your in-laws. We're not sure what you came with, but we're sure that whatever you leave with will be relatively close to the same number you arrived with.
And if you leave things here, rest assured: They're safe.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Apples to Apples
When I was a new Mom, I had this really strange (and yet totally common) habit of comparing myself with others.
There is very little job description when it comes to motherhood so one has to look to her past to see how her mother nurtured (or didn't). (My mother was an amazing cook who homeschooled five children single handedly. She took very good care of us. Still does. ) And with a little observation, one can also see how to mother by looking at how other mothers do it.
Somehow by observing and thinking and resolving I cobbled together a job description for motherhood.
Sometimes in the process of marveling and enjoying how another mother would raise her children, I would slip down that very slippery slope of comparing, usually thinking myself worse than others.
I would visit a friend who was extremely health conscious and realize that it wouldn't hurt to go running a bit more, eat a few more apples.
I'd visit a creative friend and gush over her sewing skills, wishing I had all the time in the world to sew.
I have cooking friends, baking friends, teacher friends, fashion friends... and all of them have their own beautiful spin on motherhood, their own flare.
I'm embarrassed to say that it's probably only in the past year that I am able to accept the unique blend of gifts and personality that makes me mother to my children.
I'm creative, which makes my schedule a little more flexible than others. With that creativity comes a difficulty in being organized.
I enjoy having people over to nosh with me and my family. This means my kitchen struggles to be clean but it isn't a "show" kitchen, either.
I like good food and sincere friends.
I have a yo-yo relationship with my treadmill.
I eat somewhat healthy until it's time for a treat and then I go for the gusto.
I don't buy clothes for myself very often. When I do I buy for, like, two weeks straight and then I'm mostly done for the year.
I see design in everything. Everything. I'm allergic to ugly things.
I'm a technophobe; I don't like change. I feel bad for inanimate objects when I need to replace them.
Until I was able to embrace these idiosyncrasies about myself, I judged myself constantly. I'm learning to have grace on myself. I'm learning to have grace on others who don't like how I live or, worse yet, don't like how they live.
And with that realization, I'm able to help my daughters when they tell me, "I'm sad you got rid of the old washing machine. I don't like new things."
God, give me the "grace" to accept things I cannot change,
There is very little job description when it comes to motherhood so one has to look to her past to see how her mother nurtured (or didn't). (My mother was an amazing cook who homeschooled five children single handedly. She took very good care of us. Still does. ) And with a little observation, one can also see how to mother by looking at how other mothers do it.
Somehow by observing and thinking and resolving I cobbled together a job description for motherhood.
Sometimes in the process of marveling and enjoying how another mother would raise her children, I would slip down that very slippery slope of comparing, usually thinking myself worse than others.
I would visit a friend who was extremely health conscious and realize that it wouldn't hurt to go running a bit more, eat a few more apples.
I'd visit a creative friend and gush over her sewing skills, wishing I had all the time in the world to sew.
I have cooking friends, baking friends, teacher friends, fashion friends... and all of them have their own beautiful spin on motherhood, their own flare.
I'm embarrassed to say that it's probably only in the past year that I am able to accept the unique blend of gifts and personality that makes me mother to my children.
I'm creative, which makes my schedule a little more flexible than others. With that creativity comes a difficulty in being organized.
I enjoy having people over to nosh with me and my family. This means my kitchen struggles to be clean but it isn't a "show" kitchen, either.
I like good food and sincere friends.
I have a yo-yo relationship with my treadmill.
I eat somewhat healthy until it's time for a treat and then I go for the gusto.
I don't buy clothes for myself very often. When I do I buy for, like, two weeks straight and then I'm mostly done for the year.
I see design in everything. Everything. I'm allergic to ugly things.
I'm a technophobe; I don't like change. I feel bad for inanimate objects when I need to replace them.
Until I was able to embrace these idiosyncrasies about myself, I judged myself constantly. I'm learning to have grace on myself. I'm learning to have grace on others who don't like how I live or, worse yet, don't like how they live.
And with that realization, I'm able to help my daughters when they tell me, "I'm sad you got rid of the old washing machine. I don't like new things."
God, give me the "grace" to accept things I cannot change,
give me the "courage" to change the things I can change,
and the "wisdom" to know the difference.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Washing Machine
Yesterday I had a friend over for lunch. She brought her three adorables with her. I told her "come hungry 'cause we're making pizza". I have a soft spot for homemade pizza.
So in the process of letting the children spread the sauce and put cheese on the pizza she admitted that little children + pizza making fun caused her some anxiety, to which I thought, "Oh, I don't want her to feel that way" while at the same time thinking "This ain't nothing, girlfriend."
Yesterday the morning started poorly. Mondays tend to do that. Eve gave herself an oatmeal facial and then decided to hydrate her pants as well. "I go potty," she told me. "NoNoNoNoNoNo," I pleaded as I watched the evidence drip on the floor.
At exactly the same moment, Morgan had a meltdown because she is at a very sweet and sensitive age and because her mother doesn't know what to do with this. *calm, calm*
And then our washing machine decided to die. It was that kind of day.
So last evening, Dan and I decided to go on a date. Normally we go out to eat, but this time we decided to buy a heavy appliance and install it ourselves that evening. Heave ho.
I told the salesperson that I didn't care for digital readouts, that I'm a bit of a techno-phobe and prefer the old "clunk, clunk, clunk" sound of knobs turning on my washer. He convinced me otherwise. I bought a Whirlpool Cabrio. On a whim I looked up the defintion of "cabrio" and Google asked me "Did you mean cabrito? Because it means goat meat in Spanish."
I didn't think that boded well.
I went upstairs to check on my machine and the digital readout said "LF"... and I thought "LF? What the heck does 'LF' mean?" Plus, it sounded foreboding and somewhat mean. If I told someone to "LF" I don't think they would take it well.
In a nutshell it means we put the hose on wrong on the washer, which is a relief because my first thoughts were only evil and I began to emote like a tarnished old lady, "This grim crackery is driving me nuts... When I was young we didn't need digital readouts... We used the good old low-efficiency kind of machines. And we were happy." Lots of "har-umphing" followed.
When I get to heaven, weary and full of life, I'm going to ask God why motherhood was so hard and He'll just smile and say, "It's okay, hon. You're home now. There are no digital readouts here."
So in the process of letting the children spread the sauce and put cheese on the pizza she admitted that little children + pizza making fun caused her some anxiety, to which I thought, "Oh, I don't want her to feel that way" while at the same time thinking "This ain't nothing, girlfriend."
Yesterday the morning started poorly. Mondays tend to do that. Eve gave herself an oatmeal facial and then decided to hydrate her pants as well. "I go potty," she told me. "NoNoNoNoNoNo," I pleaded as I watched the evidence drip on the floor.
At exactly the same moment, Morgan had a meltdown because she is at a very sweet and sensitive age and because her mother doesn't know what to do with this. *calm, calm*
And then our washing machine decided to die. It was that kind of day.
So last evening, Dan and I decided to go on a date. Normally we go out to eat, but this time we decided to buy a heavy appliance and install it ourselves that evening. Heave ho.
I told the salesperson that I didn't care for digital readouts, that I'm a bit of a techno-phobe and prefer the old "clunk, clunk, clunk" sound of knobs turning on my washer. He convinced me otherwise. I bought a Whirlpool Cabrio. On a whim I looked up the defintion of "cabrio" and Google asked me "Did you mean cabrito? Because it means goat meat in Spanish."
I didn't think that boded well.
I went upstairs to check on my machine and the digital readout said "LF"... and I thought "LF? What the heck does 'LF' mean?" Plus, it sounded foreboding and somewhat mean. If I told someone to "LF" I don't think they would take it well.
In a nutshell it means we put the hose on wrong on the washer, which is a relief because my first thoughts were only evil and I began to emote like a tarnished old lady, "This grim crackery is driving me nuts... When I was young we didn't need digital readouts... We used the good old low-efficiency kind of machines. And we were happy." Lots of "har-umphing" followed.
When I get to heaven, weary and full of life, I'm going to ask God why motherhood was so hard and He'll just smile and say, "It's okay, hon. You're home now. There are no digital readouts here."
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Maryland, My Maryland
I recently returned from a wedding in Texas where I saw, among many other things, a great deal of pride-of-state. Bound up in the heart of every Texan is the Alamo as well as the motto "Don't Mess with Texas." I was there briefly, but didn't feel like challenging this sentiment; I was friendly with Texas and it returned the favor.
Upon returning I went through a brief period of covetousness. People of Texas embrace their accents, their cowboy boots and their rustic charm.
Residents of Maryland, on the other hand, struggle to find the beefy pride that matches our southern friends.
I submit that there are good reasons why Maryland struggles to maintain its identity.
The Motto of Maryland leaves a lot to be desired: "Manly Deeds, Womanly Words". I turn my head in sheepish shame whenever I read it and wonder what the blazes it means. Given that Maryland hasn't used it in any advertising campaigns recently, I'm probably not alone in this thinking.
One look at Maryland and you can see that it picked the short straw when it came to overall size and shape. Surrounded by West Virginia, Pennsylvania, Delaware, Virginia and DC, one can clearly see that Maryland received, for lack of a better word, "leftovers". DC's awkward rhombus bites Maryland's south while Pennsylvania piggy-backs heavily on the northside. The other states are just as greedy.
I came to a clearer understanding of Maryland's unfortunate shape in fourth grade when my mother made Maryland-shaped cookies for my class to share. I distinctly remember her asking me, "Emily, look what I made! Can you tell me what it is?" Upon seeing the irregular looking cookie, I thought it looked like Santa's sleigh had met up with a pitbull. It's distinctive, that's for sure. I brought the cookies to the class, taking care not to let the weak northwest arm of Maryland crack off, an engineering nightmare.
Furthermore, Maryland struggles to ally herself with either the north or the south of the states. Technically speaking--or should I say "Civil War-ly" speaking, Maryland holds the esteemed position of being neither northern nor southern, dangling beneath the Mason Dixon line.
Midwesterners are quick to point out that Maryland is technically mid-Atlantic, and Marylanders will accept this nomenclature with general agreement because they realize that the midwest is filled with pioneer men and women who will eat them for lunch with Lawry's season salt. But in their hearts, Marylanders cleave to the fact that they are one of the Thirteen Original Colonies, a fact I learned in a song as a tender elementary student. Plus, we disregard most of what midwestern folk say the instant they ask, "So how IS Massachusetts?" Come to think of it, all the small "M" states on the coast hold this grudge.
It's a delightfully amusing place, culturally speaking. When a piece of land is surrounded by pearl-wearing political figures, West Virginian mountain folk and gritty Pennsylvanians, there is absolutely bound to be some confusion in what culture will evolve.
And that, I submit to you, makes Maryland a very adventurous place to live.
Beaches? Check.
Mountains? Yep.
Ocean? Uh-huh.
Rivers? Yes, and don't forget the Chesapeake Bay either.
The landscape and peoplescape and cityscape and countryscape keep one constantly learning and evolving and changing and committing.
This is impressed upon me every time I visit my husband's Iowan relatives; the people-scape is less diverse there and so are the cultural implications of that. I distinctly remember being offered copious amounts of Jello upon meeting Dan's family for the first time and seeing some very strong stares upon not digging in. That being said, Maryland can never, not-ever produce the sweetness of corn that I have indulged in Iowa. It's divine.
But I digress.
Maryland, I salute you. You are the generous neighbor to DC's political atmosphere, the kind harborer of the best crustaceans on earth, the ideal melting pot of ideas and the precious home of my upbringing.
Sorry you got the leftovers. I still love you.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Looking for Eden
When I look at my friends, I see that they have such a variety of personalities.
I have a friend I call when I want to talk deeply about life, a friend who fills the "par-tay" category very nicely, and a creative friend who believes you can do anything yourself if you put your mind to it. I love the breadth of friendships I have been granted; each one is so precious to me.
It's funny to me how something might irritate one of my friends and the same situation will bead right off the back of another-- totally unaffected.
What's more, what is considered fun to one friend is considered frivolous to another. What is considered delicious to one is inedible to another. I revel in their differences. One friend will tell me that I must see a movie and another friend will "tsk, tsk" it altogether.
As I survey my friends and hear what makes them tick, I'm reminded that, while the irritation of one is the joy of another, ultimately we're all looking for Eden.
We're looking for a way to make our home perfect and not be irritated by dirt or outdated furniture.
We're looking for the perfect connection to our friends, our children, our spouse, and God.
We long for music that speaks to our soul, to purge the cliché from our lives.
We long for our bank accounts to be "above average" and for our faith in God to be spotless.
If you'll grant me the image of Eden, we long to be completely naked, without guile, innocent, content, fulfilled and happy.
Well, I won't speak for anyone but myself: I long for it with the sweet hot intensity of a thousand suns. *
I especially desire it on days at home that are long and arduous. I'm not one of those mothers who take life's silly antics and spins it into an opportunity for growth. I'm more of the "what the sam heck just happened here?" kind of mothers, continually reeling from very basic biology: "By jove, if I toss 24 oz. of fluid down my daughter's gullet, she will, in fact, need to release it. All of it."
"Mom, I need a lunch for today," my 2nd grader reminds me, to which I wish to retort, "Again? Didn't I just make you ten thousand sandwiches in the past 30 days?" Instead I smile and nod.
I wish I was naturally organized and smiled upon every spill and nuisance.
In my defense, I have started to say, "My, Morgan! Look how wonderfully you've grown! Your pants are up to your shins!" instead of the "Sweet mercy, child! You look like a flood victim. Fetch something that fits" that I want to say. I've learned the latter method works poorly. And due to some friends who have children with medical problems, I do indeed see that Morgan's growth is very much a blessing. I'm thankful.
I try to remember that I'm thankful when I buy mountains of clothes for said growing child or when I have to buy more toiletries because my 2 and a half year old uses an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper upon producing two drops of pee in the potty. I remember to be thankful that our toilet is strong and that I don't have a to call a plumber this time. *whew*
And if you'll grant me this, writing down my thoughts on this blog help me to see the reality of the mundanity of my current stage in life as well as my gratitude.
I can sigh at the laundry and still smile when I hear the washing machine running, a favorite sound of mine.
I can remember my salsa class dance steps on my hardwood floor while carefully mincing around Cheerios.
I can hear Eden in the midst of the chaos.
*A phrase that Dan is known for saying: "hot intensity of a thousand suns"
I have a friend I call when I want to talk deeply about life, a friend who fills the "par-tay" category very nicely, and a creative friend who believes you can do anything yourself if you put your mind to it. I love the breadth of friendships I have been granted; each one is so precious to me.
It's funny to me how something might irritate one of my friends and the same situation will bead right off the back of another-- totally unaffected.
What's more, what is considered fun to one friend is considered frivolous to another. What is considered delicious to one is inedible to another. I revel in their differences. One friend will tell me that I must see a movie and another friend will "tsk, tsk" it altogether.
As I survey my friends and hear what makes them tick, I'm reminded that, while the irritation of one is the joy of another, ultimately we're all looking for Eden.
We're looking for a way to make our home perfect and not be irritated by dirt or outdated furniture.
We're looking for the perfect connection to our friends, our children, our spouse, and God.
We long for music that speaks to our soul, to purge the cliché from our lives.
We long for our bank accounts to be "above average" and for our faith in God to be spotless.
If you'll grant me the image of Eden, we long to be completely naked, without guile, innocent, content, fulfilled and happy.
Well, I won't speak for anyone but myself: I long for it with the sweet hot intensity of a thousand suns. *
I especially desire it on days at home that are long and arduous. I'm not one of those mothers who take life's silly antics and spins it into an opportunity for growth. I'm more of the "what the sam heck just happened here?" kind of mothers, continually reeling from very basic biology: "By jove, if I toss 24 oz. of fluid down my daughter's gullet, she will, in fact, need to release it. All of it."
"Mom, I need a lunch for today," my 2nd grader reminds me, to which I wish to retort, "Again? Didn't I just make you ten thousand sandwiches in the past 30 days?" Instead I smile and nod.
I wish I was naturally organized and smiled upon every spill and nuisance.
In my defense, I have started to say, "My, Morgan! Look how wonderfully you've grown! Your pants are up to your shins!" instead of the "Sweet mercy, child! You look like a flood victim. Fetch something that fits" that I want to say. I've learned the latter method works poorly. And due to some friends who have children with medical problems, I do indeed see that Morgan's growth is very much a blessing. I'm thankful.
I try to remember that I'm thankful when I buy mountains of clothes for said growing child or when I have to buy more toiletries because my 2 and a half year old uses an ENTIRE roll of toilet paper upon producing two drops of pee in the potty. I remember to be thankful that our toilet is strong and that I don't have a to call a plumber this time. *whew*
And if you'll grant me this, writing down my thoughts on this blog help me to see the reality of the mundanity of my current stage in life as well as my gratitude.
I can sigh at the laundry and still smile when I hear the washing machine running, a favorite sound of mine.
I can remember my salsa class dance steps on my hardwood floor while carefully mincing around Cheerios.
I can hear Eden in the midst of the chaos.
*A phrase that Dan is known for saying: "hot intensity of a thousand suns"
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Training
I'm in the midst of potty training. To any non-parent, this is the point where they veer sharply to the right of the blog road and get off as soon as possible. Understood.
But to those anticipating this blessed event or who have recently undertook such an adventure, I find that they like to talk.
My initial thoughts on this journey is that it is a "hurry up and wait" experience, which is somehow simultaneously stressful and boring. Additionally, it's not the kind of adventure where you can say "Time out! I'd like to take a break." Nope. We're on the Concorde to Pottyville and there are no stops or layovers, baby. Strap in.
There are some adorable stages to training. The first being that preschoolers have no shame whatsoever and find underpants somewhat useless. Some of my friends recommended buying special princess or themed underwear for the occasion, but I can tell with a good deal of certainty that my daughter does not care if her princess-clad undies get a rain shower or not.
I did cave, however, when I thought to buy an M&Ms dispenser. Total overkill, I know, but it's novelty and it'll get her attention. She loves it, by the way.
Dan came home yesterday and asked about the progress. Frankly, if you put your mind to the task, you can do anything, I told him. Anyone who knows me and how I bail on projects knows how ironic this is. But she is my daughter and not a project, which helps. :)
The laundry room coughed a sigh of relief at bedtime last night. It was running non-stop yesterday as the floors and some clothing got some "spot cleaning" for lack of a better word.
Grace comes in various forms. I was most thankful for my friend's little daughter coming over yesterday. She was trained just a few weeks ago and showed Eve the ropes. There is such a thing as positive peer pressure. I embrace it heartily.
I have a friend who said that when she taught her son to be potty trained she felt like, and I quote, a "genius".
I don't feel like a genius.
Yesterday I felt excited.
Last night I felt less excited, more like glad.
Today I perch precariously between feeling "glad" and "weary", like a committed mother who loves to see her child grow and learn and try.
I flushed all the other feelings away.
But to those anticipating this blessed event or who have recently undertook such an adventure, I find that they like to talk.
My initial thoughts on this journey is that it is a "hurry up and wait" experience, which is somehow simultaneously stressful and boring. Additionally, it's not the kind of adventure where you can say "Time out! I'd like to take a break." Nope. We're on the Concorde to Pottyville and there are no stops or layovers, baby. Strap in.
There are some adorable stages to training. The first being that preschoolers have no shame whatsoever and find underpants somewhat useless. Some of my friends recommended buying special princess or themed underwear for the occasion, but I can tell with a good deal of certainty that my daughter does not care if her princess-clad undies get a rain shower or not.
I did cave, however, when I thought to buy an M&Ms dispenser. Total overkill, I know, but it's novelty and it'll get her attention. She loves it, by the way.
Dan came home yesterday and asked about the progress. Frankly, if you put your mind to the task, you can do anything, I told him. Anyone who knows me and how I bail on projects knows how ironic this is. But she is my daughter and not a project, which helps. :)
The laundry room coughed a sigh of relief at bedtime last night. It was running non-stop yesterday as the floors and some clothing got some "spot cleaning" for lack of a better word.
Grace comes in various forms. I was most thankful for my friend's little daughter coming over yesterday. She was trained just a few weeks ago and showed Eve the ropes. There is such a thing as positive peer pressure. I embrace it heartily.
I have a friend who said that when she taught her son to be potty trained she felt like, and I quote, a "genius".
I don't feel like a genius.
Yesterday I felt excited.
Last night I felt less excited, more like glad.
Today I perch precariously between feeling "glad" and "weary", like a committed mother who loves to see her child grow and learn and try.
I flushed all the other feelings away.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Keeps Going
It's September 11th, 2011.
It's a big day for this beautiful country.
My husband is out of town. Before he left he said, "You know I was flying out of Baltimore on September 11th ten years ago and I'll be flying again on September 11th." He said it in a cavalier way. It left a small catch in my throat but no time to think on that day because, well, my children were up and it was just another ordinary day to us. Lunches to make. Children to clothe.
Today is Sunday. I had all intentions of going to church this morning. What better way to spend such a reflective day?
Eve woke up with a runny, goopy nose and I thought better of exposing the other children to their first fantastic cold of the year. Plus, I want to remain friends with their mothers. :)
So I did what I do best during times of reflection: I cook. Gives my hands something to do while my mind ruminates. This morning I'm making a root vegetable soup that simmers in white wine and chicken broth. It's earthy and satisfying. The colors of the soup beckon fall.
In the background, I have Good Morning America on the television. "America Remembers." Children of 9/11 are speaking about the fathers they never met. The new 9/11 memorial is prominently in the middle of the screen, hauntingly beautiful with its vast dark square holes, memories of the twin tower footprints. It's exquisite.
In a moment of reflection, I realize that I'm immensely proud of America. We could have used that real estate for new buildings, new commerce. But instead we remembered a very important place in our history. We put aside the dollar. Planted trees. Built waterfalls. Felt the names engraved on the periphery of the falls. We refused to forget this humbling, horrible day. We refuse to to let it crush us either.
While I'm simmering the soup and listening to the background of the broadcast, my little Eve is barking. "Wan watch Wild Kratts! Wan watch Wild Kratts," she shouts again and again. She wants today to be like every day. She wants to watch her little program about animals. "Am-mi-mals," she calls them. She has no idea that this day is special in so many ways. I admire her innocence.
Frustrated, she turns on my ipod and begins to dance. "Wan dance! Wan dance," she demands. She wants me to dance with her.
Life is that way, isn't it? Pulled in so many directions. Laughing while crying while remembering while cooking while parenting and wiping runny noses.
Can't contain life. It's bursting forth with sounds and colors and textures of seasons.
Some we don't want to remember. Some we will never forget.
It's a big day for this beautiful country.
My husband is out of town. Before he left he said, "You know I was flying out of Baltimore on September 11th ten years ago and I'll be flying again on September 11th." He said it in a cavalier way. It left a small catch in my throat but no time to think on that day because, well, my children were up and it was just another ordinary day to us. Lunches to make. Children to clothe.
Today is Sunday. I had all intentions of going to church this morning. What better way to spend such a reflective day?
Eve woke up with a runny, goopy nose and I thought better of exposing the other children to their first fantastic cold of the year. Plus, I want to remain friends with their mothers. :)
So I did what I do best during times of reflection: I cook. Gives my hands something to do while my mind ruminates. This morning I'm making a root vegetable soup that simmers in white wine and chicken broth. It's earthy and satisfying. The colors of the soup beckon fall.
In the background, I have Good Morning America on the television. "America Remembers." Children of 9/11 are speaking about the fathers they never met. The new 9/11 memorial is prominently in the middle of the screen, hauntingly beautiful with its vast dark square holes, memories of the twin tower footprints. It's exquisite.
In a moment of reflection, I realize that I'm immensely proud of America. We could have used that real estate for new buildings, new commerce. But instead we remembered a very important place in our history. We put aside the dollar. Planted trees. Built waterfalls. Felt the names engraved on the periphery of the falls. We refused to forget this humbling, horrible day. We refuse to to let it crush us either.
While I'm simmering the soup and listening to the background of the broadcast, my little Eve is barking. "Wan watch Wild Kratts! Wan watch Wild Kratts," she shouts again and again. She wants today to be like every day. She wants to watch her little program about animals. "Am-mi-mals," she calls them. She has no idea that this day is special in so many ways. I admire her innocence.
Frustrated, she turns on my ipod and begins to dance. "Wan dance! Wan dance," she demands. She wants me to dance with her.
Life is that way, isn't it? Pulled in so many directions. Laughing while crying while remembering while cooking while parenting and wiping runny noses.
Can't contain life. It's bursting forth with sounds and colors and textures of seasons.
Some we don't want to remember. Some we will never forget.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Quiet
The summer is still here, technically.
But Labor Day has come and gone; with a perfect 68 degree day I brought up my wheat wreath for the door and some little fall decorations to place around the house. It's my way of giving autumn permission to enter my home.
The past winter was so difficult that I told myself no matter how hot and tired I was by the end of the summer, I needed to soak in every last bit. I convinced myself that if I concentrated on each day and enjoyed it to the dregs I would be able to "bank" summer and draw upon it in March, when I needed it most. By July I worried that fall would come and I would be devastated. I so enjoy the sun.
But I'm not devastated.
Granted, I'm not psyched either.
I'm yielding.
You know the way a person dips one toe in the pool first, then a leg, then both legs before immersing? Yielding.
On an emotional level, I bottomed out early this summer. I'm unsure how this occurred, but somewhere between the twelfth time I said "yes" to something that I should've said "no" to, I went numb. I auto-piloted my days until I realized that my daughter Morgan started to say things like, "I'll do this so Eve doesn't wear you out so much, Mom."
Summer became healing for me. Allowed me to get off the grid, off the regimen of the school year. Refocused my priorities.
During this time of withdrawing, I realized that I very, very much miss designing. I don't miss corporate life or putting things in my portfolio... I miss the act of taking a blank canvas or screen or piece of paper and making something out of nothing. So I began to design again.
I didn't let things hold me back. I skipped naps at times. If I ran out of pencils, I used crayons. I needed to get on paper what was skipping around in my mind.
During this unplanned sabbatical, something spiritual has happened.
I'm quiet.
Right here (pointing to heart)... right here is where I am quiet.
I'm learning to say "no" to things that disrupt the quiet, that take me off course. I'm learning to listen closer to the quiet nudgings God gives me...
I'm pretty sure I'm annoying some people who would like a helping hand.
I'm letting go of what people expect of me. It's hard for this people pleaser, but I'm trying.
I'm in love with the quiet.
The still small voice.
God's muse is speaking.
But Labor Day has come and gone; with a perfect 68 degree day I brought up my wheat wreath for the door and some little fall decorations to place around the house. It's my way of giving autumn permission to enter my home.
The past winter was so difficult that I told myself no matter how hot and tired I was by the end of the summer, I needed to soak in every last bit. I convinced myself that if I concentrated on each day and enjoyed it to the dregs I would be able to "bank" summer and draw upon it in March, when I needed it most. By July I worried that fall would come and I would be devastated. I so enjoy the sun.
But I'm not devastated.
Granted, I'm not psyched either.
I'm yielding.
You know the way a person dips one toe in the pool first, then a leg, then both legs before immersing? Yielding.
On an emotional level, I bottomed out early this summer. I'm unsure how this occurred, but somewhere between the twelfth time I said "yes" to something that I should've said "no" to, I went numb. I auto-piloted my days until I realized that my daughter Morgan started to say things like, "I'll do this so Eve doesn't wear you out so much, Mom."
Summer became healing for me. Allowed me to get off the grid, off the regimen of the school year. Refocused my priorities.
During this time of withdrawing, I realized that I very, very much miss designing. I don't miss corporate life or putting things in my portfolio... I miss the act of taking a blank canvas or screen or piece of paper and making something out of nothing. So I began to design again.
I didn't let things hold me back. I skipped naps at times. If I ran out of pencils, I used crayons. I needed to get on paper what was skipping around in my mind.
During this unplanned sabbatical, something spiritual has happened.
I'm quiet.
Right here (pointing to heart)... right here is where I am quiet.
I'm learning to say "no" to things that disrupt the quiet, that take me off course. I'm learning to listen closer to the quiet nudgings God gives me...
I'm pretty sure I'm annoying some people who would like a helping hand.
I'm letting go of what people expect of me. It's hard for this people pleaser, but I'm trying.
I'm in love with the quiet.
The still small voice.
God's muse is speaking.
Creative Motherhood
Being a stay at home mother is an amazing journey of discovery. I'm constantly amazed at how often I am amazed. Does that make sense?
I'm amazed at my daughter Morgan as she made her own kite yesterday. After informing her as gently as possible that it probably won't fly and "don't worry we'll find you a kite", I marveled at how she used a pencil and a roll of ribbon for the kite string, attached to a piece of colored chip board. If hope alone could lift this kite, she had enough to send it to outer space.
I marveled less when her younger sister unwound it and played with it like the kitty cat that she is.
I delight in Morgan's highly creative mind. She's resourceful. She doesn't let anything hold her back. She yields to the inspiration that drives her. She doesn't care about timing or impossibilities. She attacks creative projects with effortless energy.
Because of this, my house is not my own.
Craft bins are left as spoils of war: torn open, the contents strewn as if a wild creative animal attacked.
Bed skirts are swiss-cheesed by my scissor-handed daughter who needed white fabric RIGHT AWAY. (A talk ensued.)
There is paint on my daughter's carpet, a half-painted mural on her wall and wax strings are hung artistically on the wall above her bed.
Gone are the carefully chosen vintage Wizard of Oz illustrations I hung with care on her wall when she was a baby.
Gone are the vestiges of anything that matches or looks coordinated.
I don't even open Pottery Barn Kids catalogs anymore. They're totally fake.
Gone are the things that are "baby".
In its stead are little poems written on scraps of paper.
There are occasional "GO AWAY" signs on the floor, evidence of a girl who is learning her boundaries in life.
Her room is a physical representation of her mind: small groupings of play here and there. I don't think there is one square foot of her carpet that can be seen.
When I talk to her about cleaning her room, she melts. Her head bows and she begins to get misty eyed. She doesn't know how to be organized.
She is me thirty years ago. Struggling to be organized. Not understanding why I can't think as neatly as others.
But fortunately for her, she has me for a mother. Organization is my arch nemesis. I hate papers. I can't get rid of things and yet on certain times of the year, the left side of my brain takes the right side of my brain as hostage and I begin to purge vast amounts of things from our house.
I need to breathe. And she does too.
So today, with her permission, I plan on packing her room into boxes.
"Don't put them in the basement, Mom. There are bugs and spiders."
"Don't worry, Morgan, I'll put a lid on the boxes."
"You won't sell my stuff, will you? When you put them in the basement, you like to sell them."
She's right, but I reassure her, "I'll put them in the basement and let you bring them up to your room one box at a time until you find a home for everything. I won't sell them."
The adventure continues. The dance is perfected... the carefully choreographed steps give way to improvisation.
I'm amazed at my daughter Morgan as she made her own kite yesterday. After informing her as gently as possible that it probably won't fly and "don't worry we'll find you a kite", I marveled at how she used a pencil and a roll of ribbon for the kite string, attached to a piece of colored chip board. If hope alone could lift this kite, she had enough to send it to outer space.
I marveled less when her younger sister unwound it and played with it like the kitty cat that she is.
I delight in Morgan's highly creative mind. She's resourceful. She doesn't let anything hold her back. She yields to the inspiration that drives her. She doesn't care about timing or impossibilities. She attacks creative projects with effortless energy.
Because of this, my house is not my own.
Craft bins are left as spoils of war: torn open, the contents strewn as if a wild creative animal attacked.
Bed skirts are swiss-cheesed by my scissor-handed daughter who needed white fabric RIGHT AWAY. (A talk ensued.)
There is paint on my daughter's carpet, a half-painted mural on her wall and wax strings are hung artistically on the wall above her bed.
Gone are the carefully chosen vintage Wizard of Oz illustrations I hung with care on her wall when she was a baby.
Gone are the vestiges of anything that matches or looks coordinated.
I don't even open Pottery Barn Kids catalogs anymore. They're totally fake.
Gone are the things that are "baby".
In its stead are little poems written on scraps of paper.
There are occasional "GO AWAY" signs on the floor, evidence of a girl who is learning her boundaries in life.
Her room is a physical representation of her mind: small groupings of play here and there. I don't think there is one square foot of her carpet that can be seen.
When I talk to her about cleaning her room, she melts. Her head bows and she begins to get misty eyed. She doesn't know how to be organized.
She is me thirty years ago. Struggling to be organized. Not understanding why I can't think as neatly as others.
But fortunately for her, she has me for a mother. Organization is my arch nemesis. I hate papers. I can't get rid of things and yet on certain times of the year, the left side of my brain takes the right side of my brain as hostage and I begin to purge vast amounts of things from our house.
I need to breathe. And she does too.
So today, with her permission, I plan on packing her room into boxes.
"Don't put them in the basement, Mom. There are bugs and spiders."
"Don't worry, Morgan, I'll put a lid on the boxes."
"You won't sell my stuff, will you? When you put them in the basement, you like to sell them."
She's right, but I reassure her, "I'll put them in the basement and let you bring them up to your room one box at a time until you find a home for everything. I won't sell them."
The adventure continues. The dance is perfected... the carefully choreographed steps give way to improvisation.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Dear Self
I'm not blogging for anyone but myself tonight. Just me.
Hello, Self-
I know you feel lost lately. You feel confused why the woman who wanted another child so badly could sometimes have feelings of *stop* (whisper)... not wanting to be a mother sometimes.
Grace.
It's not that you don't want to be a mother. It's that you want to think once in a while. A whole complete thought. Not snippets. Real thoughts. Entire symphonies of beautiful, life-giving expressions.
You want to feel energetic.
And smiley and smart and godly and loving.
And sometimes pretty.
So let's start with some beautiful thoughts of the day:
- Morgan's laugh... It's like the music of rippling water. It giggles and gurgles as she lets out her joy. Beautiful.
- Eve, first thing in the morning... She always compliments what you wear: "Nice sunglasses, Mommy," she says of my reading glasses. "Nice neckwace. Nice hair. Nice skirt, Mommy." She's full of things to say.
- Is there anything more beautiful than being married to a man who will willingly set his tempo to yours each day?
Let's go running.
Let's read together.
Let's have coffee.
Let's just talk.
He's there, setting aside his desires; listening to the beat of another's thoughts and desires.
There are still sadnesses in the world.
Your parents will not remarry each other. That is sad.
Your family lives far away.
And things break just about every day during this season in life. Maddening.
But keep carrying, on, Self.
Keep finding reasons to have parties.
Keep sewing and designing and decorating.
Keep baking buttercream frosted cupcakes to eat after a super healthy salad.
Keep running and napping and laughing.
And for goodness sake, keep showering. It's not a luxury.
It's a season of life. It's okay to feel overwhelmed by the mundanity of it at times.
One day your orthodontics will come off and you'll smile more.
One day your youngest daughter will stop challenging you on every front; she'll want to get dressed on her own.
One day you'll have more time for running, though you'll probably enjoy eating cupcakes more.
Make sure you find the reasons you press on as a stay at home mom so that you don't lose heart.
Peace.
Hello, Self-
I know you feel lost lately. You feel confused why the woman who wanted another child so badly could sometimes have feelings of *stop* (whisper)... not wanting to be a mother sometimes.
Grace.
It's not that you don't want to be a mother. It's that you want to think once in a while. A whole complete thought. Not snippets. Real thoughts. Entire symphonies of beautiful, life-giving expressions.
You want to feel energetic.
And smiley and smart and godly and loving.
And sometimes pretty.
So let's start with some beautiful thoughts of the day:
- Morgan's laugh... It's like the music of rippling water. It giggles and gurgles as she lets out her joy. Beautiful.
- Eve, first thing in the morning... She always compliments what you wear: "Nice sunglasses, Mommy," she says of my reading glasses. "Nice neckwace. Nice hair. Nice skirt, Mommy." She's full of things to say.
- Is there anything more beautiful than being married to a man who will willingly set his tempo to yours each day?
Let's go running.
Let's read together.
Let's have coffee.
Let's just talk.
He's there, setting aside his desires; listening to the beat of another's thoughts and desires.
There are still sadnesses in the world.
Your parents will not remarry each other. That is sad.
Your family lives far away.
And things break just about every day during this season in life. Maddening.
But keep carrying, on, Self.
Keep finding reasons to have parties.
Keep sewing and designing and decorating.
Keep baking buttercream frosted cupcakes to eat after a super healthy salad.
Keep running and napping and laughing.
And for goodness sake, keep showering. It's not a luxury.
It's a season of life. It's okay to feel overwhelmed by the mundanity of it at times.
One day your orthodontics will come off and you'll smile more.
One day your youngest daughter will stop challenging you on every front; she'll want to get dressed on her own.
One day you'll have more time for running, though you'll probably enjoy eating cupcakes more.
Make sure you find the reasons you press on as a stay at home mom so that you don't lose heart.
Peace.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Coneflowers
This post is for my sister, Becky... who takes whatever life gives her and makes it into art.
With a few snatches of time, some moments I stole away... I cut this lino print.
When I'm cutting a lino, I have a rough idea of how it will look, but it really takes a life of its own. A line that I meant to cut into a flower turns into a grass like shape. On top of that, everything is cut in mirror image so that the print is pulled to reflect the true image.
It's a good exercise... to take a delicate drawing, flip it to its mirror image and take a chisel to pull out the most important features of its character. Forces me to think, "What matters most in this image?"
There's a message there. I'll let you draw it out for yourself. :)
Enjoy. I sure have.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Pool Day
Warning: There will be no pictures on this post. None. None whatsoever.
My husband went on a camping trip this weekend with some buddies. I'd like to tell you I was jealous, but camping falls into the vacation category "what to do when you want to appreciate home more". It's a category I reserve for the worst of vacation ideas.
But I digress. I decided to take my daughters to the pool today and learned a great deal that I'd like to share with the wide world of bloggyville.
First, it took about one hour to get ready for the pool. We had to find the pool passes. And grease up the kiddos with sunscreen. And find the pool diapers. And pack drinks. I have no idea why it took that long.
Upon arriving at the pool, I discovered that the baby pool was under maintenance. Bugger. No worries, I'll let Eve test the zero-depth entry of our pool.
I learned something new about Eve today. She likes to jump in the deep end. She has the common sense of a tadpole and the energy of a caffeinated cheetah. I turned my head one second, then turned it back to find my Eve under water. Not swimming. In the process of drowning. So I scooped her up and encouraged her to swim in the non-drowning end of the pool.
At one point Eve bolted from my grasp circumference. I found myself reluctantly jogging after my toddler (who was laughing) while I recalled why working out earlier in the year would have been better than now. Let me know when they make Spandex full-body bathing suits, would ya?
One particularly funny moment was when Eve *desperately* wanted "icicle" (popsicle) and stood in front of an older girl who was enjoying a popsicle and smiled her prettiest, dimple-est smile at her, looking alternately at her popsicle and the girl's face. I swear that if that chica turned her head, she'd find her frozen snack snatched from her grasp while a 2 year old ran away laughing with her mother on her heals.
Shortly after, it was time for us to leave.
Upon re-entering our house, all hell broke loose from Eve's pool diaper. I found Eve crying and sliding on the hardwood floor, repeatedly falling in a wet, diapery mess. I thought of how tired I was having such melodramatic transitions from house to pool and pool to house. I mean, why can't it be like NASA? Don't they prepare their astronauts for re-entry into earth's atmosphere?
I'm unsure what perks come with this transitional assistance, but I would very much appreciate the same foresight: a cold drink upon re-entry into my house, followed by a comforting grandma figure for my over-tired cheetah daughter and gentle classical music flooding my mudroom, so as to give audible clues to my daughters as to how to behave.
You can see I've had too much sun today.
My husband went on a camping trip this weekend with some buddies. I'd like to tell you I was jealous, but camping falls into the vacation category "what to do when you want to appreciate home more". It's a category I reserve for the worst of vacation ideas.
But I digress. I decided to take my daughters to the pool today and learned a great deal that I'd like to share with the wide world of bloggyville.
First, it took about one hour to get ready for the pool. We had to find the pool passes. And grease up the kiddos with sunscreen. And find the pool diapers. And pack drinks. I have no idea why it took that long.
Upon arriving at the pool, I discovered that the baby pool was under maintenance. Bugger. No worries, I'll let Eve test the zero-depth entry of our pool.
I learned something new about Eve today. She likes to jump in the deep end. She has the common sense of a tadpole and the energy of a caffeinated cheetah. I turned my head one second, then turned it back to find my Eve under water. Not swimming. In the process of drowning. So I scooped her up and encouraged her to swim in the non-drowning end of the pool.
At one point Eve bolted from my grasp circumference. I found myself reluctantly jogging after my toddler (who was laughing) while I recalled why working out earlier in the year would have been better than now. Let me know when they make Spandex full-body bathing suits, would ya?
One particularly funny moment was when Eve *desperately* wanted "icicle" (popsicle) and stood in front of an older girl who was enjoying a popsicle and smiled her prettiest, dimple-est smile at her, looking alternately at her popsicle and the girl's face. I swear that if that chica turned her head, she'd find her frozen snack snatched from her grasp while a 2 year old ran away laughing with her mother on her heals.
Shortly after, it was time for us to leave.
Upon re-entering our house, all hell broke loose from Eve's pool diaper. I found Eve crying and sliding on the hardwood floor, repeatedly falling in a wet, diapery mess. I thought of how tired I was having such melodramatic transitions from house to pool and pool to house. I mean, why can't it be like NASA? Don't they prepare their astronauts for re-entry into earth's atmosphere?
I'm unsure what perks come with this transitional assistance, but I would very much appreciate the same foresight: a cold drink upon re-entry into my house, followed by a comforting grandma figure for my over-tired cheetah daughter and gentle classical music flooding my mudroom, so as to give audible clues to my daughters as to how to behave.
You can see I've had too much sun today.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Kitchen Naming
In recent months, it has come to my attention that I hate my kitchen.
"Hate" is the word my mother always responded to by saying "Hate is a very strong word" in order to deter us from saying it.
I still stand by my assessment.
My kitchen doesn't bring me peace. In order to unload the dishwasher, I have to put most of my dishes on the counter, close the dishwasher and then put them in the cabinets. Though it's a good size of kitchen, the storage is horrible; things get lost. I use two other closets on the first floor for overflow. There are myriads of other reasons that I dislike this room, which is a shame because I enjoy cooking for my family.
I have had three other kitchens before this one; this one tops the cake.
I have bought scores of organizing do-dads for this kitchen. No matter what I do, it seems to put a bandaid on something that is worthy of surgery.
Recently I came to the conclusion that the hate I have for my kitchen is so large that it is about to swallow me the way my 2 year old tries to swallow Munchkin Donuts: whole and entirely.
*Gulp*
So in a weak moment, I finally decided to pray about my kitchen situation. I think I might have told God that I hated my kitchen so much that I wanted to burn it down. That I didn't know what I was getting into when we bought this house. And that I'd really like the hate to subside. And that I'd like another one, please-oh-please-oh-puh-lease.
I'd like to tell you that, as a result of the prayer, the Internal Revenue Service found an error on our taxes and essentially paid for a brand new kitchen for us.
Instead, I re-named my kitchen. I named it "Faith Kitchen". This nomenclature hasn't kept items from plummeting out of cabinets onto my seething head, but it has placed something into God's hands instead of mine.
What's more, I need to wait for the right plan to be revealed. I have no idea how I would want my kitchen redesigned even if I were ready to go.
I do know that I want a kitchen where people feel welcome and invited. If anyone comes into my *new* kitchen and feels overawed by hoity-toity design, then it has lost its heart. I've been in kitchens like that: Show kitchens. Nope, I want it to be a place of peace, of nurturing and of good conversations.
So keep me accountable. If you walk into my kitchen one day and find me screeching smack about it, remind me to leave it in God's hands.
"Hate" is the word my mother always responded to by saying "Hate is a very strong word" in order to deter us from saying it.
I still stand by my assessment.
My kitchen doesn't bring me peace. In order to unload the dishwasher, I have to put most of my dishes on the counter, close the dishwasher and then put them in the cabinets. Though it's a good size of kitchen, the storage is horrible; things get lost. I use two other closets on the first floor for overflow. There are myriads of other reasons that I dislike this room, which is a shame because I enjoy cooking for my family.
I have had three other kitchens before this one; this one tops the cake.
I have bought scores of organizing do-dads for this kitchen. No matter what I do, it seems to put a bandaid on something that is worthy of surgery.
Recently I came to the conclusion that the hate I have for my kitchen is so large that it is about to swallow me the way my 2 year old tries to swallow Munchkin Donuts: whole and entirely.
*Gulp*
So in a weak moment, I finally decided to pray about my kitchen situation. I think I might have told God that I hated my kitchen so much that I wanted to burn it down. That I didn't know what I was getting into when we bought this house. And that I'd really like the hate to subside. And that I'd like another one, please-oh-please-oh-puh-lease.
I'd like to tell you that, as a result of the prayer, the Internal Revenue Service found an error on our taxes and essentially paid for a brand new kitchen for us.
Instead, I re-named my kitchen. I named it "Faith Kitchen". This nomenclature hasn't kept items from plummeting out of cabinets onto my seething head, but it has placed something into God's hands instead of mine.
What's more, I need to wait for the right plan to be revealed. I have no idea how I would want my kitchen redesigned even if I were ready to go.
I do know that I want a kitchen where people feel welcome and invited. If anyone comes into my *new* kitchen and feels overawed by hoity-toity design, then it has lost its heart. I've been in kitchens like that: Show kitchens. Nope, I want it to be a place of peace, of nurturing and of good conversations.
So keep me accountable. If you walk into my kitchen one day and find me screeching smack about it, remind me to leave it in God's hands.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
On Aging
I can't tell you how many times I have attempted to write this blog post. I've written it in my head a dozen different ways... snippets, really. Today I'm attempting to navigate some emotions which may not make sense to some and may irritate others, but that's half the fun of blogging anyway.
*ahem*
A few months ago, I was laughing with my hair stylist and conversing about the latest signs of aging I've noticed on my person. I asked her, "So when does one give up trying to fight aging and just let it all happen?" She stopped and her tone became very serious: "You must never, never, ever give up. You must fight it all the way." Uh-huh. I gulped. I tucked that nugget in my "note to self" file.
In recent days, I have found a small family of bright white hairs which settled nicely on the crown of my head. I immediately plucked them out and grimaced at them, daring them to produce more.
Other signs of mortality include extra smile lines and a gentle relaxing of the skin. I stare them down in the mirror until they don't bother me as much anymore.
I've started to workout again and secretly spurn my younger self for thinking that all one had to do was sweat a bunch to achieve a certain image. Mercy, this is hard.
I do manage to find gratefulness in the midst of these observations. Instead of speaking ill of my body, I remember its purpose: Legs are for walking and serving my family. Arms are for hugging and making dinner. Lips are for smiling.
And then: There is my dear Morgan. She's seven years old and doesn't know that she is pretty yet. I tell her she looks beautiful, but I don't have the guts to tell her that I think she is one of the most beautiful creatures I know. Somehow in the past seven years she has developed into a somewhat confident, amazingly creative and downright good looking child.
Now here is the part that I find difficult to express because it will sound like I want to be complimented or pitied and I may sound vain, none of which I desire:
Like most people, my inner junior-high-age side of me remembers the awkwardness of learning to do my hair and wear makeup and have people like or not like me based on how I looked that day. So it strikes me to my core when I see that, by golly, something beautiful came from my life.
And in the midst of that thought, I see a little girl looking into my eyes and telling me in not-so-many words that she is looking to me to see how to be a woman.
*Gulp*
I must be brave, I tell myself. I must shun thoughts of self-deprecation.
The sharp chin I've always disliked about myself? Hush, self. She's inherited it from you and she looks beautiful.
The melodramatic creativity? Be patient, Emily. She's a mini version of you.
The enthusiasm for making gifts for people? You.
The way her day is "really really good" or "the worst day ever"? You again.
And years from now when she finds that the magazines are telling her to do the impossible to look a certain way... she will look to you, Emily, to tell her how to be grateful for the way she is made.
God willing, I will be there when she delivers her first baby. I'll be there in the days after when she doesn't feel pretty and that her whole purpose is to produce milk for her baby. Which, in truth, it is.
God willing, I'll be there when she is a radiant bride. And a breathtaking date for prom. And a sleep-deprived mother. And a middle aged woman.
For today, I'll enjoy being her middle aged mother who needs to embrace all that God made me so that she will have the confidence to do the same. Spurn those white hairs.
*ahem*
A few months ago, I was laughing with my hair stylist and conversing about the latest signs of aging I've noticed on my person. I asked her, "So when does one give up trying to fight aging and just let it all happen?" She stopped and her tone became very serious: "You must never, never, ever give up. You must fight it all the way." Uh-huh. I gulped. I tucked that nugget in my "note to self" file.
In recent days, I have found a small family of bright white hairs which settled nicely on the crown of my head. I immediately plucked them out and grimaced at them, daring them to produce more.
Other signs of mortality include extra smile lines and a gentle relaxing of the skin. I stare them down in the mirror until they don't bother me as much anymore.
I've started to workout again and secretly spurn my younger self for thinking that all one had to do was sweat a bunch to achieve a certain image. Mercy, this is hard.
I do manage to find gratefulness in the midst of these observations. Instead of speaking ill of my body, I remember its purpose: Legs are for walking and serving my family. Arms are for hugging and making dinner. Lips are for smiling.
And then: There is my dear Morgan. She's seven years old and doesn't know that she is pretty yet. I tell her she looks beautiful, but I don't have the guts to tell her that I think she is one of the most beautiful creatures I know. Somehow in the past seven years she has developed into a somewhat confident, amazingly creative and downright good looking child.
Now here is the part that I find difficult to express because it will sound like I want to be complimented or pitied and I may sound vain, none of which I desire:
Like most people, my inner junior-high-age side of me remembers the awkwardness of learning to do my hair and wear makeup and have people like or not like me based on how I looked that day. So it strikes me to my core when I see that, by golly, something beautiful came from my life.
And in the midst of that thought, I see a little girl looking into my eyes and telling me in not-so-many words that she is looking to me to see how to be a woman.
*Gulp*
I must be brave, I tell myself. I must shun thoughts of self-deprecation.
The sharp chin I've always disliked about myself? Hush, self. She's inherited it from you and she looks beautiful.
The melodramatic creativity? Be patient, Emily. She's a mini version of you.
The enthusiasm for making gifts for people? You.
The way her day is "really really good" or "the worst day ever"? You again.
And years from now when she finds that the magazines are telling her to do the impossible to look a certain way... she will look to you, Emily, to tell her how to be grateful for the way she is made.
God willing, I will be there when she delivers her first baby. I'll be there in the days after when she doesn't feel pretty and that her whole purpose is to produce milk for her baby. Which, in truth, it is.
God willing, I'll be there when she is a radiant bride. And a breathtaking date for prom. And a sleep-deprived mother. And a middle aged woman.
For today, I'll enjoy being her middle aged mother who needs to embrace all that God made me so that she will have the confidence to do the same. Spurn those white hairs.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Cooking with Evey
It's Saturday afternoon and I am spending time with Eve. Or rather, she is spending time with me.
I am in the kitchen at the peninsula preparing a Cheddar Jalapeño Cornbread and she is on the other side of the peninsula. She has pulled up a chair and immediately began scanning the countertop's vast wealth of food and ingredients.
She wants to help.
Eve is one of those wonderful kind of people who lets you know in no uncertain terms that she will be a part of your life and that you will like it. She's very adept at ignoring body language (what 2 year old isn't?) and plunges herself into any project I am doing with great vim and vigor. I have watched this child push herself in the middle of a group of older children, beam a dimpled smile at them and win over children twice her age... children who had earlier shunned her as unsuitable play-friend material.
I mixed the dry ingredients. Eve saw the sugar lying on top of the dry mixture. She grabbed a cracker sitting on the counter and plunged her fat little hands into the dry mixture, trying to grab as much sugar on top of her cracker.
"No thank you," I say as politely as possible and quickly take it away from her.
I add the milk and eggs. "Don't touch," I warned her.
"Counta da eggs! One. Two. Fee. Four." She eyes me, hoping I'll look elsewhere. "No touch," I remind her.
With lightning speed she confiscates the whisk. "I stir! I stir," she celebrates. I tell my nerves to hush as I marvel at her "skill". Or tenacity.
Next came the shredded cheese. Oh, the cheese. How I forgot how much she loves cheese. I pour 2 cups of shredded cheddar in the bowl. I barely catch her from plunging both her hands into the bowl. I offer her a bowl of her own. She shoves the entire bowl into her mouth, pushing the bits of cheese with both hands. I love watching 2 year olds eat.
I add the green onions. "Hep you! Hep you!" She runs to the utensil drawer and pulls out a very dull knife. It's practically round; it's used for spreading soft cheeses. She helps me cut and we put them in the bowl. She stirs the concoction once more.
Next I cut up the Jalapeño. She nearly chomps on a ripened pepper and bawks at me as I rip it from her hands. "It's ouchy, Eve. Ouchy." Sweet mercy, this child keeps me hopping.
We mix the last of the ingredients. I pop it in the oven, thankful that it's safe from little hands.
Truthfully: I'm exhausted. I can't do one thing without Eve wanting to be in the mix. Ironically, this is one of the things I adore about her.
Years from now, I will have a clean-er kitchen. My grocery shopping trips will be quicker. My laundry will stay folded when I put it in the basket. I'll cook dinner wicked fast.
Something tells me that it won't matter and that I'll miss my little helper.
Thanks for your help, Evey.
I am in the kitchen at the peninsula preparing a Cheddar Jalapeño Cornbread and she is on the other side of the peninsula. She has pulled up a chair and immediately began scanning the countertop's vast wealth of food and ingredients.
She wants to help.
Eve is one of those wonderful kind of people who lets you know in no uncertain terms that she will be a part of your life and that you will like it. She's very adept at ignoring body language (what 2 year old isn't?) and plunges herself into any project I am doing with great vim and vigor. I have watched this child push herself in the middle of a group of older children, beam a dimpled smile at them and win over children twice her age... children who had earlier shunned her as unsuitable play-friend material.
I mixed the dry ingredients. Eve saw the sugar lying on top of the dry mixture. She grabbed a cracker sitting on the counter and plunged her fat little hands into the dry mixture, trying to grab as much sugar on top of her cracker.
"No thank you," I say as politely as possible and quickly take it away from her.
I add the milk and eggs. "Don't touch," I warned her.
"Counta da eggs! One. Two. Fee. Four." She eyes me, hoping I'll look elsewhere. "No touch," I remind her.
With lightning speed she confiscates the whisk. "I stir! I stir," she celebrates. I tell my nerves to hush as I marvel at her "skill". Or tenacity.
Next came the shredded cheese. Oh, the cheese. How I forgot how much she loves cheese. I pour 2 cups of shredded cheddar in the bowl. I barely catch her from plunging both her hands into the bowl. I offer her a bowl of her own. She shoves the entire bowl into her mouth, pushing the bits of cheese with both hands. I love watching 2 year olds eat.
I add the green onions. "Hep you! Hep you!" She runs to the utensil drawer and pulls out a very dull knife. It's practically round; it's used for spreading soft cheeses. She helps me cut and we put them in the bowl. She stirs the concoction once more.
Next I cut up the Jalapeño. She nearly chomps on a ripened pepper and bawks at me as I rip it from her hands. "It's ouchy, Eve. Ouchy." Sweet mercy, this child keeps me hopping.
We mix the last of the ingredients. I pop it in the oven, thankful that it's safe from little hands.
Truthfully: I'm exhausted. I can't do one thing without Eve wanting to be in the mix. Ironically, this is one of the things I adore about her.
Years from now, I will have a clean-er kitchen. My grocery shopping trips will be quicker. My laundry will stay folded when I put it in the basket. I'll cook dinner wicked fast.
Something tells me that it won't matter and that I'll miss my little helper.
Thanks for your help, Evey.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Discipline
Queen Anne's LaceHello, Abandoned Blog-
I have missed you, but I haven't. I have decided that I want my time to matter. Sometimes blogging matters; lately something else has.
I have learned a great deal about myself lately.
I started working out... I've been a bit more regimented than I usually am. This involves getting up earlier than my family and picking up cold metal objects and having some man on a DVD convincing me that this discipline will result in something wonderful. It has resulted is something wonderful, but not what I expected.
It has resulted in discipline.
I didn't know I could like discipline. The artsy, right side of my brain tells me to shun all things rigid. But I find an odd freedom in being disciplined.
It has splashed over into other areas of my life. I reserve a portion of the afternoon for a hobby of mine which I hope will turn into a business one day. I quietly work on my hobby with no one prodding me on. It's all because of working out, really. When you're disciplined in one area of life, it feels amazing to be disciplined in other areas.
The bad side to discipline is when it turns to rigidity, when it pushes away the people or ideologies that matter more. Discipline and flexibility need to work together for beautiful balance.
This morning my flexibility is being tested. My sweet husband struggles with epilepsy and it has reared its ugly head once more. On "seizure day", everything stops. Schedules are tabled. Doctor is called. Sometimes a hospital is in order.
I'm not sure what is most evil about epilepsy... the way it disrupts or the way it corrupts the image of Dan. It reduces the beauty in our life and we must fight to not let it become us.
This morning I have a yearning to sleep and to design and to sleep again. I want rest to restore my mind and design to recreate that which was lost.
Discipline and flexibility. May the dance be perfected.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Pizza
I must have suffered a severe blow to the head because I took my husband up on the offer to go out to dinner tonight.
Did I forget the screaming and bouncing 2 year old who accompanied us to the Chinese restaurant?
Or the time she declared the Thai food in the Noodles restaurant to be "STINKY POOPS! STINKY POOPS!" (That's the worst smell she could think of.)
Upon being seated at the Pizzeria, Eve immediately confiscated the pepper, salt and red pepper flakes. She began to shake them upon her napkin. She had several napkins because she took all our napkins as well. Normally a grown person can stand up to a 2 year old and get the napkins back, but after you see what she does to them, you really don't want them back.
There was a silver springy contraption in the middle of the table which held several specials that the restaurant had to offer. Eve immediately ripped out the offers and began licking the contraption, which we promptly stopped.
After eating chicken nuggets, french fries and noodles, she screamed "Mine! Mine!" upon seeing that Dan and I ordered pizza for ourselves. It's hard to eat pizza with someone screaming in your ear, but it can be done. I'm that talented.
Throughout the dinner she eyed the food at other tables and declared that she should also have "JUICE! JUICE". The poor table next to us was celebrating a birthday. Lucky for them, we have our own personal lover of birthdays who noticed that she was not partaking of "BIRDAY CAKE! WAN SOM BIRDAY CAKE."
One day, Dan and I will see a young couple sitting in a pizzeria with a toddler and smile appreciatively at them. But for today, that couple is us. We're ordering in next time.
Did I forget the screaming and bouncing 2 year old who accompanied us to the Chinese restaurant?
Or the time she declared the Thai food in the Noodles restaurant to be "STINKY POOPS! STINKY POOPS!" (That's the worst smell she could think of.)
Upon being seated at the Pizzeria, Eve immediately confiscated the pepper, salt and red pepper flakes. She began to shake them upon her napkin. She had several napkins because she took all our napkins as well. Normally a grown person can stand up to a 2 year old and get the napkins back, but after you see what she does to them, you really don't want them back.
There was a silver springy contraption in the middle of the table which held several specials that the restaurant had to offer. Eve immediately ripped out the offers and began licking the contraption, which we promptly stopped.
After eating chicken nuggets, french fries and noodles, she screamed "Mine! Mine!" upon seeing that Dan and I ordered pizza for ourselves. It's hard to eat pizza with someone screaming in your ear, but it can be done. I'm that talented.
Throughout the dinner she eyed the food at other tables and declared that she should also have "JUICE! JUICE". The poor table next to us was celebrating a birthday. Lucky for them, we have our own personal lover of birthdays who noticed that she was not partaking of "BIRDAY CAKE! WAN SOM BIRDAY CAKE."
One day, Dan and I will see a young couple sitting in a pizzeria with a toddler and smile appreciatively at them. But for today, that couple is us. We're ordering in next time.
Monday, April 11, 2011
Morning and Evening
The days are just packed.
With a young lady who is extremely creative and smart and funny and conniving.
She is the one who asks questions that older people would be embarrassed about, but she wants to know. Bodily function questions, mostly.
She's also the one who told us that her "close friend" (a boy) at school didn't want his sister to know who she was at the School Open House tonight.
She's the one who wants to know how we're getting to heaven. "Is Jesus going to come down and dig us up from the ground?"
She's the one who wears a breezy cotton scarf for a little spring color.
She's my Morgan.
Then there's a two year old who is toddle-y and energetic and a bit mischievous.
She found out how to open the peppermill tonight. A dozen little black balls of fun bounced on the kitchen table as I ran to stop her.
She's also the one who seizes my (sealed) vitamin bottles when I get home from the grocery store. I recently learned that she likes how they rattle and has been hiding them behind the couch cushions.
She's immensely concerned that everyone has their water bottles and shoes. It's just her "thing".
And tonight when she held a precious little 4 month old baby girl, she sang "Jesus loves me" with her whole heart, the way it should be sung.
She's my Eve.
My heart is full.
"And there was evening (Eve), and there was morning (Morgan). " Genesis 1, parentheses mine
With a young lady who is extremely creative and smart and funny and conniving.
She is the one who asks questions that older people would be embarrassed about, but she wants to know. Bodily function questions, mostly.
She's also the one who told us that her "close friend" (a boy) at school didn't want his sister to know who she was at the School Open House tonight.
She's the one who wants to know how we're getting to heaven. "Is Jesus going to come down and dig us up from the ground?"
She's the one who wears a breezy cotton scarf for a little spring color.
She's my Morgan.
Then there's a two year old who is toddle-y and energetic and a bit mischievous.
She found out how to open the peppermill tonight. A dozen little black balls of fun bounced on the kitchen table as I ran to stop her.
She's also the one who seizes my (sealed) vitamin bottles when I get home from the grocery store. I recently learned that she likes how they rattle and has been hiding them behind the couch cushions.
She's immensely concerned that everyone has their water bottles and shoes. It's just her "thing".
And tonight when she held a precious little 4 month old baby girl, she sang "Jesus loves me" with her whole heart, the way it should be sung.
She's my Eve.
My heart is full.
"And there was evening (Eve), and there was morning (Morgan). " Genesis 1, parentheses mine
Sanity
I'm cutting down on blogging because, well... you'll see that I'm the only sane one around here.
My in-laws brought the kids these Sesame characters.
And then I found them like this. Disturbing, I know.
My in-laws brought the kids these Sesame characters.
And then I found them like this. Disturbing, I know.
I can't tell you how many times a day I find Eve doing a headstand.
I've never seen anything like it.
Morgan made a bathroom out of Legos. The seat of the toilet flips up and down.
Not to be outdone, Dan spent a good deal of time on a Saturday afternoon making this gumball machine out of Legos. It's a clown head... It actually works.
1. Open the head of the clown.
2. Put gumballs (or Lego pieces) into head.
3. Pull clown's nose out.
4. Catch the treat as it comes out the clown's mouth.
Monday, March 21, 2011
Mini Bathroom Renovation
Well, don't I feel a little rusty? I have been enjoying a wonderful season of family life and dropped clear off the blogisphere. I totally recommend a sabbatical.
Wanted to share some pics of my latest endeavor.
Project: Master Bath.
First, I would like to acknowledge that the design of the walls was not mine... I took it straight from The Lettered Cottage. Because she's genius and, hey, why reinvent the wheel?
That being said, the REASON I wanted to redo the bath was because we were storing everything on our countertops and it was cluttered. Drove me bonkers.
Here's what we had done:
1. Rewired electrical.
Our new medicine cabinets were so tall that we had to have the electrical boxes moved. While the contractors had the walls open, we asked them to put an electrical outlet behind each medicine cabinet so we could plug in razors, etc. *love it*
2. Walls
We had the walls painted a creamy white and a light gray color after they were repaired. We also had the contractor put wood panels BEHIND the drywall so that we could screw our towel bar DIRECTLY into the wood without using anchors. That was our contractor's idea. *love*
3. Cabinets
We had the cabinets painted a color called Cement Gray.
But it's not flat gray, it has some blues in it, somehow.
4. New hardware and faucets.
Delta Dryden faucets. *swoon* LOVE these. I chose them because Dan is a big guy and I didn't want him to have to delicately switch on and off the water. I bought these on buy.com for about HALF the price of other stores.
5. Bling
Spa towelette, anyone?
Marble soap dispenser?
HomeGoods store, of course.
6. Bonsai
For that spa feeling, a beautiful life-giving plant.
7. Wall outlets
These porcelain wall outlets are available at Restor*ation Hard*ware for beaucoup bucks. I found some lookalikes at Lowes for about $5 each. They are beautiful to feel.
We have a few things yet to do, but the bulk of the work is done.
We want to add a few medium wood toned things to the walls to warm up the color and contrast. And add a few knobs to the cabinets.
We hired this job out. It took several men 4 days to do this work. Some days they worked until dinnertime. We were glad to have someone else do it instead of us, since we can't have our bathroom undone for long periods of time.
We love our new bathroom renovation. For a fraction of what a whole new bathroom costs, we got some serious bang for our buck.
Hope you enjoy your home and its organization as well.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
For the Grandparents
Some pics of Morgan, the Toothinator and Eve the Troublemaker.
Please note that I have more pics of Eve b/c I was home with her. No favortism. :)
Eve's post-nap fashion.
Morgan makes awesome pretzels!
Morgan made a sign to encourage the dogs at the dog sled race we watched.
Lost front teeth. So cute.
Eve's totally kissable little puffy cheeks.
Future photographer?
The look of guilt:
Sick at home. A rare smile during sickness.
Eve likes to wear goggles. That's all I have to say about that.
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