Our Date.

We took the new truck because Ethan thinks it is so cool. I feel pretty cool driving it too once I get up there. I mean, it's not even a big truck, but if I have super tight jeans on (and all my jeans are super tight right now), I can barely get my bent leg up to pull myself up. I feel so self conscious as I am hoisting myself in, wondering if my jeans are going to split right up the butt.
We drove down the street to McDonald's (affectionately call Old McDonald's by Ethan, who probably was learning the song at around the same time he first went to McDonald's, and so now the two are forever married in his small, genius of a mind) and as we walked in I thought how wonderful it was that going to McDonald's was the only thing on my agenda for the day; that I could hold Ethan's hand as we walked in, not rushing him, not thinking about anything else but the moment with him.
We walked into a small crowd. I hadn't been in a McDonald's in forever, and I noticed how they are trying to be Starbuck's--the muted colors, (Common! McDonald's in not forest green and egg plant purple! It's orange red and mustard yellow. Wear it.) and even the wall decor of coffee cups. Please.
I was overwhelmed by the menu, and decided to go with the huge, Swiss cheese and mushroom burger.
I think I must have been on drugs or something.
Ethan wanted a happy meal with chicken nuggets and apples with carmel dip and chocolate milk. He also wanted a specific toy, but I told him you get whatever they throw in the bag-it's a surprise! That seemed to appease him and I prayed it would ward off any sort of melt down if didn't get what he wanted.
I let Ethan choose where we wanted to sit. He chose the bar stools. We watched a mom and her two elementary school kids while we waited. I tried to talk to Ethan (so, how are you?) but he was more interested in swinging side to side int he bar stool, which was OK.
My burger had a cup of mayonnaise on the top bun and reminded me of this cream of mushroom dish my mom used to make served over noodles, only thicker, with chunky beef . I scraped the mayonnaise off with a straw, and took two or three bites because it cost $3.99, and then came to my senses and realized I wouldn't want to eat the rest of it even if someone would pay me a hundred dollars.
Ethan loved his apples and carmel dip. I asked if I could have his chicken nuggets, and he gave me all of them. He ended up getting stuck with a lame dragon instead of the shooting toy he wanted, but he started playing with it, thank you Jesus.
Ethan took his time, kicking his legs as he sucked his chocolate milk through a straw. I downed the chicken nuggets as if we had somewhere to go. I started to get restless. It's not like you want to spend thirty minutes in McDonald's. Heck my butt was starting to hurt from the plastic chair, and my stomach was still turning over from the after taste of my burger.
I promised him ice cream, so we had to get a cone. His mouth took little tiny licks, and I sat there watching him, getting more and more restless. "Commoncommoncommon, let's go buddy," I said to him, instantly feeling guilt for rushing the poor kid. Can't I slow down enough to let him finish his ice cream cone without feeling the rush that otherwise rules the roost?
Obviously not. I waited another thirty seconds and then told him it was time to go.
He gave me the second half of the ice cream cone, which I was really happy about because I really wanted it after sitting there and watching him eat the first half.
It was a really good experience for me, this little date. I realized how hard it is for me to slow down and enjoy my kid. I need practice. We'll do another one soon, but it sure as heck well not be at McDonald's and will involve nothing even close to resembling a Swiss mushroom burger. *Barf*

Naptime and God.

I have been moody and depressed lately, with seemingly nothing worth writing. As far as my emotional state goes, the clouds start to clear, and then they come back. I haven't had a bright sunny day in a while.
There is something big going on, something wanting to change deep inside me, and I am strapped in, along for the ride. I am trying desperately not to resist it.
I sit at the teacher table at nap time, while my kids are rolling around like marbles, reading new books that are rocking my world (Emotionally Healthy Spirituality, Love is a Choice, Boundaries in Marriage) and between spurts of telling little Johnny or Sue to be quiet and hold still, I feel the dark hole in my chest. Just feel it. Let it be what it is. I don't use verses to get rid of it, don't ignore it, don't feel guilty about it. Just let it be, and tell God, well, there it is. Here I am. A dark hole.
And we sit there, me and God, during nap time, and I can actually for the first time in a long long time, pray.

Good morning darkness.

I got up at 5:22 A.M. to feed the little piggy and as he gulped down his early breakfast, I kept thinking about my warm bed with flannel sheets waiting for me as soon as little the oinker was done. But then I remembered Joey is having surgery right now, and I have to drop Ethan off at Grandmas and then pick Joey up at the hospital by eight A.M. So I had to stay up.
I hopped in the shower to wake up, and I couldn't help but think about the Schneider Days, when I would get up at 4:20 A.M. and usually doze on and off, standing there with the hot water running all over me. Crazily, I had feelings of longing for those days again.
What I miss about Schneider is the recognition, the pats on the back. That job was all about competition, and if you did well, you felt like you won, everyday.
Those days are long gone, for better or for worse, and I would be better off if I let that era of my life go, and focus on right now: being the best mom I can be, the best preschool teacher, the best wife. There's a lot of good stuff going on there, like Ethan's cow costume we bought for the Harvest Festival.
It's too small, gives him the most painful looking permanent wedgie, has stuffing in the hips and butt that make him look like forty something obese woman, and he loves it. Wants to sleep in it. Wear it to church. To Costco. Everywhere. It's been a wonderful disciplinary tool, as in "Ethan, you must put your socks on or the cow is gone--" I've never seen someone put their socks on so fast.
I'll post pictures soon.

Six week mental check up.

Noah is six weeks old. I am trying to get into some routine that includes working out, but I also have to give myself a break. I read in a magazine at the doctors office that after you have a baby you have to let go of unrealistic expectations, like looking like Heidi Klum--who I have no idea who she is but I am sure she is the beautiful, Sports Illustrated type--in six months. Six months?? And here I am at six weeks banging my own head against the wall because my regular jeans are super duper hoochie tight and uncomfortable.
Is there a pill for this?
I remember with Ethan my clothes fitting differently, my hips being wider specifically. I remember not minding, liking my new, more round and soft motherly look. In fact, I think I wore my pregnancy pants for a few months after the baby was born.
This time? I think I packed up every last piece of maternity clothing I had and either gave it away or put it in the garage, far far far away from my closet, sometime that first week. I was determined the baby was going to do as little disrupting as possible in our life: our schedule, our time, our money and yes, my pants.
The pregnancy was so hard for so many reasons, I was bracing for the worst when Noah arrived, so in my mind I got everything in order: back to work at four weeks, a chore list with every chore possibly imaginable including dusting floorboards and the fans--weekly, and an exercise routine five days a week.
With a newborn. And a three year old.
I am surprised at how well my "expectations" have actually realized, despite them being terribly unrealistic. Borderline psycho really.
The only one that has fallen off the band wagon is the exercise, and that's partly because I have also been sick. And, well, I have ignored some of the stupid chores I originally thought were imperative to life going well. Like dusting the floorboards.
Noah has been such a trooper through all this madness, swinging in his chair, sucking his pacifier just like Maggie Simpson. It's good when I stop to remember to hold him just because, to feel his baby weight in my arms, run my fingers over his fat, baby man thighs. Those moments, I know somewhere inside of me, are more important than getting up at five a.m. to exercise.

What do you want?

This is a fun writing exercise--just start writing whatever pops in your head.
I want to paint pumpkins. I want to make pretty blankets with soft, pretty yarn, the kind you buy at a yarn store, not Wal-mart. I want to be a ballerina, or it least be as strong and flexible as one. I want a new car, and a new wedding ring. I want to take the time to cook yummy dishes. I want to run, three days a week. I want to run a 13K. I want to teach kickboxing again. I want to become a yoga instructor and teach somewhere. I want to love my dogs better. I want to be more patient with Ethan. I want to love Joey in total freedom--his and mine. I want a tattoo. I want to dance again. I want to sing again. I want to take voice lessons. I want to take a painting class. I want to take a dance class. I want to be a better teacher: more creative with my crafts, more responsible with my planning. I want to be more confident, especially when talking with parents, or anyone I think is cooler than I am. I want to care about people when I am talking to them. I want to believe that God created me for good works, and that my mind and my thoughts have value. I want to redecorate my master bedroom, I want it to be romantic and pretty and comfortable. I want to travel with Joey--Italy, Costa Rica. I want to stay connected to Brazil. I want to always remember Portuguese. I want to play my guitar and get good at it, more than the chords. I want to host parties, with good friends and wine and dessert. I want to give meaningful gifts, and wrap them so pretty. I want to not be afraid of getting old. I want to look into the future with more hope than fear. I want to be excited about what is to come.

You can't ever really get away from being mommy.

I went to the mall yesterday and had my face done at the Bobbi Brown counter. I felt like I needed a make-over of some sort, something to make me feel young and pretty.
It kinda worked.
The lady who worked on me was older (mind 50's) and her eyeliner was thick and black, taking up her whole eyelid. She was new and insecure, but sweet and kind too. She also gave me a nice thick line of eyeliner on each eyelid, which by the end of the day felt so heavy it was making my eyes close. In fact by the end of the day, my whole face felt like it was drooping there was so much make-up on it. And that was just the "day wear"--don't get me near the "going out" look.
Jen and Lily came too. Lily was good for almost the whole time. At the end, when she was screaming her head off and Jen's old make-up lady was rolling her eyes impatiently every time Jen reached down to give her the pacifier, I was reminded again how hard it can be to be a mom, especially a new one. Thinking about being a mom made my milk come in (or maybe it was Lily's cry) and as I sat there getting my mascara applied for me, I wondered if big wet spots were forming on my shirt. I put my arms up and put pressure on my boobs, something I have to do at the end of everyday at work when my milk decides it's time and lets down. (Unfortunately, this is also the time the parents are picking up their kids and I am walking around holding my breasts in the most inconspicuous way possible, if one exists, which I don't think it does.)
It is what it is.
I did like the lip base and liner and lipstick, so I am putting them on my Christmas list.

Blessings and miracles in the morning.

My first day back at work was refreshing. The schedule, having to get dressed, having to be nice and smile at people even if on the inside I feel less than Miss Perky--are all good things, grace to my own heart. God is good and directs our paths, that is for sure. I would never have chosen this job; there are still moments when I miss my old job terribly, but I know those feelings aren't good for me or my family. This new job works. The schedule, the stress level, the people I am with all day--it's a safe, good place for my soul. The old job was good for my pride and checking account.
The kids were all so good, I even thought some of them were cute at times.
I am praising God this morning, blessed to see His work and care in my life.
And Noah smiled for the first time today. Well, actually he did it yesterday, but I wasn't really sure if it was a fake farty one or not. But today there was no doubt--his eyes were involved, bright and steady as they looked back at me. The world stopped, and I sat in awe for a second, overwhelmed and feeling quite unworthy, like I just witnessed a miracle.
Which, I suppose, is exactly what it was.